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BIG JACK 

































































BIG JACK 

And 

Other True Stories of H orses 


By 

GABRIELLE E. JACKSON 

4 i 

Author of 
*' LITTLE COMRADE,” 
u THE COLBURN PRIZE,” 

“LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE,” ETC. 



NEW YORK 

J. F. TAYLOR & COMPANY 
MCMIII 




COPYRIGHT, I903, BY 
J. F. TAYLOR AND 
COMPANY, NEW YORK 


Published September, IQ03 


THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS. 

Two Copies Receiver 

SEP 17 1903 

^Copyright Eiai> 
CUSS XXe. No 

6*S 3 > 

I COPY 8 . I 


<\ 


■? 




* .« 


‘ , • 


« .« 


Acknowledgment 
is due to The Editors of St. 

Nicholas , Our Animal Friends , New York 
Herald , &c., for permission to 
reproduce these stories 

Gabrielle E. Jackson 


% 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Big Jack, 11 

“ Billee Taylor,” 37 

Charlie & Co., 65 

Gray Lady’s Only Son, 83 

How Ned Toodles Went to Cooking School, 131 

Old Nick’s Christmas, 141 

How Ned Toodles Told Time, . . .175 


BIG JACK 




•J 






“BIG JACK” 


T WONDER how many of the little 
people in New York City have ever 
heard of “ Big Jack ”? Not many, I fancy; 
and yet Big Jack is quite an important 
character, and holds a very responsible posi- 
tion, which he fills with much dignity as 
well as credit to himself, and satisfaction 
to his employers. 

His headquarters are at Broadway and 
Twenty-second Street, where he can usually 
be found at about ten o’clock in the morn- 
ing, and from that hour, off and on, until 
about 5 P. M. In the intervals his business 
affairs call him to various parts of the city, 
but being extremely methodical in his 
habits, he is usually at his office about 
lunch-time. 


11 


STORIES OF HORSES 


You may be somewhat surprised to learn 
that he is strictly a vegetarian, confining 
his diet solely to cereals or fruit, with occa- 
sionally a few lumps of sugar. He should 
have been a Scotchman, judging by his 
fondness for oats, but he was born, I am 
told, in our own country. 

Possibly his love for oats may account 
for his beautiful complexion, which is 
snowy white, with just a suggestion of pink 
showing through and telling of the warm, 
rich blood flowing underneath. 

I first became acquainted with Jack about 
five years ago. Indeed, I must confess that 
we scraped acquaintance. It came about in 
this manner. I was standing with my little 
daughter upon the corner of Broadway and 
Twenty-second Street, waiting for an up- 
town car, when I became aware that we 
were being very closely regarded by a pair 
of unusually large and extremely beautiful 
brown eyes — eyes which were very eloquent, 
12 


STORIES OF HORSES 


and seemed to say much more plainly than 
words could have done : u I am very favor- 
ably impressed with that little girl, and I 
should like to know her. Will she speak to 
me, do you think? ” 

I called the little girl’s attention to the 
big eyes looking at her so steadfastly, and, 
do you know, I believe she understood their 
language even better ‘than I did, and yet I 
flatter myself that I am a pretty good in- 
terpreter of such glances. At any rate, she 
walked straight up to their owner and said : 
“ Why do you look at me that-a-way? I 
just guess you know I keep lumps of sugar 
in my pocket to give to great, big lovely 
horses like you ! ” 

Slowly a great white head with the most 
intelligent eyes I have ever seen was low- 
ered to a level with the little maid’s face, 
and two or three queer, sidling steps taken 
to bring it closer to the outstretched arms. 
The owner seemed to realize that those little 
13 


STORIES OF HORSES 


arms never gave any save the tenderest car- 
esses, and he was very glad to feel one circle 
around his huge, soft neck, while the other 
carried a small hand to stroke a very silky 
muzzle, for Big Jack is a horse among 
horses. And big, indeed, he is — a giant of 
his kind. 

There is nothing small about Jack either 
in his make-up or his manners. His head is 
massive, but magnificently formed, with 
thin, sensitive nostrils, wide-awake eyes 
placed widely apart, small, alert ears which 
point forward, or occasionally one is turned 
back as though to listen round the corner 
for the sound of a familiar voice, or a kindly 
word from his driver, who is justly proud 
of the big white creature. 

And such a neck ! I would not dare ven- 
ture a guess as to the size of collar Jack 
wears, for the great neck arches up to a 
crest that is truly noble. 

But his eyes tell more of his noble nature 
14 


STORIES OP HORSES 


than all the rest of the head together ; they 
are so big, so soft, so brown, and so elo- 
quent. With them he talks to you, express- 
ing by them love, kindness, expectancy, joy, 
and — sometimes — make-believe anger, for 
Jack is rarely angry in earnest. 

But he resents the slightest approach to 
teasing by flashing his big eyes at his tor- 
mentor, and after they have seen the sharp 
eyes turned so keenly on them, not many 
have the hardihood to push matters too 
far. 

Big J ack has hosts of friends, who always 
have a kind word for him, and a day rarely 
passes without someone bringing him a 
dainty of some sort. 

His driver carries him an apple every 
morning when he goes to the stable to take 
him out for his day’s work, and Jack knows 
exactly the hour to expect him, and the in- 
stant his foot-fall is heard, greets him with 
a loud whinny. 


15 


STORIES OF HORSES 


After Jack has enjoyed his apple, his 
master lets him out of his stall, and that is 
Jack’s opportunity for a frolic. He prances 
about like a young colt until told to “ go 
along and get his drink,” when he at once 
marches off to the water-trough and pro- 
ceeds to drink up a few gallons. A good 
breakfast follows, and then he puts himself 
in position to be harnessed, gets into his 
shafts, and is ready for business. He knows 
exactly what is expected of him, and trots 
straight to the express office at Twenty- 
second Street and Broadway. 

Jack does not move rapidly; it is not com- 
patible with his size and dignity to do so, 
for he seems to realize his importance and 
to understand how utterly impossible it 
would be for the company to conduct the 
express business without his valuable 
assistance. 

In front of his office Jack is king, and 
woe to any other horse who tries to usurp 
16 


STORIES OP HORSES 


his special post. He knows precisely how 
that wagon should be backed in to the side- 
walk to receive its daily load, and does not 
rest until he has brought it to exactly the 
proper position. 

Then he settles down for a nap, and no 
one would imagine that the big white horse 
standing there with his head hanging down 
and eyes partly closed had half an ounce of 
sense in his great head. But stand aside for 
a few moments and watch him. Presently 
you see one ear turned slowly backward for 
apparently no cause at all. But Jack knows 
more than you do, and that ear is sharp, and 
has heard the patter of familiar feet and the 
sound of a sweet little voice. He cannot see 
behind him because, long ago, some stupid 
man, who thought he knew more about 
horses’ needs and natures than He who 
created them, decreed that they must wear 
a great patch of leather on each side of their 
heads in order that they may not know what 
17 


STORIES OF HORSES 


is happening behind them ; and blinders they 
are indeed. 

But he did nut stop up their ears, and 
Jack has that to be thankful for. 

That pretty ear has heard a voice it 
recognizes, and when it has told its posses- 
sor that the owner of that voice is near 
enough to be seen, slowly the great head is 
raised and turned the least little bit to the 
right side, and the eyes, but a moment since 
so dull and sleepy, — so oblivious of sur- 
rounding affairs, — begin to beam with a 
wonderful softness. 

Now comes dancing along a little girl 
about four years of age, with brown curls 
waving and brown eyes sparkling. A little 
girl who never walks; she skips and she 
prances, she jumps and she dances, as she 
holds her mother’s hand, and, I had better 
add, she chatters incessantly. 

No wonder Jack has heard her. She 
comes up from behind him very quietly and 
18 


STORIES OF HORSES 

says softly, “ Good-morning, dear old 
Jack!” 

Jack hitches a step or two closer to the 
sidewalk and waits; for Jack is a sly old 
fellow, and he knows it would never do to 
turn too quickly, and so spoil this pleasant 
little game of peek-a-boo. 

“ Who loves sugar, and how many lumps 
have I in my pocket for somebody? ” 

The word “ sugar ” has broken the charm, 
and Jack can no longer resist. The big, 
soft head comes down to the little girl’s out- 
stretched arms and snuggles close up to her 
— so close that one passing by stops to say, 
“ Oh, that horse will surely hurt that child.” 

But Big Jack and Wee Winkles under- 
stand each other too well, and the great 
creature’s gentleness is a very beautiful 
lesson. 

“ Now, Jack,” she continues, “ before we 
can have any sugar we must shake hands.” 

Hardly are the words uttered when up 
19 


STORIES OF HORSES 


comes a monstrous right foot, which two 
small hands grasp at the slender ankle ; for 
to hold the hoof itself would be somewhat 
like trying to hold half a ton. 

“ That’s a dear horse. Now, find the but- 
tons on my coat, — a lump of sugar for each 
button, you know.” 

Very gently the soft muzzle travels up 
the front of the little coat, and a sly nip is 
given to the top button. The reward is in- 
stantly offered, and crunched with a relish. 
Before it has had time to slip down the 
huge throat, Jack has found the second but- 
ton, and won his second lump. Four but- 
tons in all, and four lumps of sugar. 

A few more loving pats upon the dear old 
nose, the assurance that she “ loves him 
dearly, dearly,” and Wee Winkles prances 
away up Broadway to Madison Square for 
her morning airing, while Jack watches her 
until she is lost in the throng. 

Nearly every day, during the winter 
20 


STORIES OP HORSES 


months in town for almost two years, Jack 
was visited, and no matter how long a time 
elapsed during the summer, when his little 
friend was out of town, Jack never forgot 
her, but upon her return showed his delight 
in every possible way. 

But at length came a long separation, for 
the little girl moved far away uptown, 
where she lived for two years, and then 
moved to the country, and Big Jack was 
seen no longer. We often wondered 
whether he missed his morning visitor and 
lumps of sugar, but concluded that several 
other children, who knew and loved him, 
would doubtless remember him. Not only 
children loved Jack, but grown people find 
something very fascinating in the great 
creature, who is by turns affectionate or 
mischievous, and seems to act toward his 
friends with remarkable discrimination, 
showing to some all that is gentlest and 
sweetest — and this usually to the little 
21 


STORIES OF HORSES 


people — in his disposition, and to others 
his mischief. 

To see Jack dissemble is too funny for 
words to express. He will pretend he does 
not know a friend is near him until that 
friend slips his hand into his pocket for the 
apple or sugar which Jack knows all the 
time is there. Then he will turn his head 
slowly, very slowly, toward the individual, 
who may have been standing there for the 
past two minutes, — time is of no value to 
Jack, — then a quiet, scarcely perceptible 
change in the position of the ears, a sur- 
prised opening of the eyes, as though to 
say : “ Why, really, are you there? I am 
surprised! I had no idea that you were 
within half a mile. So pleased to see you ! ” 

Then the sweet morsel is accepted in the 
most gracious manner imaginable, as 
though his lordship were conferring a great 
favor by condescending to accept the atten- 
tion. 


22 


STORIES OF HORSES 


And now I must tell you something which 
seems almost too wonderful to be true. 
After a lapse of five years we can tell a tale 
of Jack’s intelligence which is truly ex- 
traordinary, and which proves conclusively, 
if, indeed, the fact ever could be doubted, 
that our dumb friend has a memory which 
some of his two-footed friends might envy. 

Not long since his little friend, now 
grown a large girl of nine years, went with 
her mother to the city to do some shopping, 
and, turning into Twenty-second Street 
from Sixth Avenue, the first object which 
met her eyes was Big Jack standing in 
front of one of the shops. 

Although five years have passed over 
Jack’s head since we first met him, — and 
that is quite a number as horses’ lives are 
counted, — they have dealt very gently with 
him, and he is but little changed. Not 
quite so sleek, perhaps, and not so kittenish, 
for Jack has worked hard and steadily all 


23 


STORIES OP HORSES 


these years, and work tells even upon the 
strongest horses; but the same old Jack 
stood before us, and could not be mistaken. 

We were behind him, and his blinders 
prevented him from seeing us. 

“ Oh, mamma,” said his little friend, “ do 
you think he will remember me if I speak to 
him? How I wish we had some sugar for 
the dear old fellow ! ” 

I replied that we would step into a store 
close at hand and get a few lumps, and then 
we would test Jack’s memory. We soon 
had our sugar, and Wee Winkles — no 
longer “ wee ” — walked up from behind 
him as of old,- and said in the voice which 
Jack had not heard for nearly four years, 
and which naturally must have changed 
considerably in that interval : “ Good-morn- 
ing, dear old Jack ! ” To my great aston- 
ishment, the recognition was instantaneous. 
Quick as a flash the great head was turned ; 
and not only that, but a soft whinny told 
24 


STORIES OF HORSES 


of the dear old fellow’s joy, as did also the 
quick snuggling down to the outstretched 
arms. 

No one could possibly doubt these demon- 
strations of delight ; and when they were 
followed by the voluntary upraising of the 
huge fore foot, as of old, for the— what shall 
I say — foot-shake? his little friend’s joy 
knew no bounds. 

“ Oh, mamma, mamma,” she cried, “ did 
you ever know anything so wonderful ? ” 

I replied that it was indeed very remark- 
able, and added, “ Can it be possible that he 
has remembered all the tricks? Ask him 
about the s-u-g-a-r ” — spelling the word lest 
the sound might recall the trick of the but- 
tons. 

“ Who loves sugar, and how many lumps 
have I in my pocket for somebody? ” 

But, alas ! fashions have changed in four 
years, and some coats have no buttons at 
all. In vain poor Jack felt about for the 
25 


STORIES OF HORSES 


top button, then a little lower for where 
No. 2 should have been found, then at 
the other side for three and four, but no 
buttons were there; and Jack, utterly dis- 
gusted, manifested it by shaking his head 
and stamping his foot. His surprise was 
absurdly funny, and if he could have spoken 
I believe he would have said with withering 
scorn : “ Well, if I were in your place I’d 
go straight home and sew on my buttons!” 

Jack, however, got his four lumps despite 
the fashions, and was a very happy horse. 

It is perhaps rather difficult to believe 
this little tale, but it is absolutely true from 
beginning to end, and has been written in 
order to give the little people who reside in 
that section of New York an opportunity 
to see and know big Jack, for I do assure 
you he is well worth seeing and knowing. 

There are, I dare say, a great many very 
clever and very beautiful horses in our big 
city. Indeed, Wee Winkles and I know 
26 


STORIES OF HORSES 


several ourselves. “ Billy Borden,” for in- 
stance, who knows his milk route so well 
that his driver has only to say, “ 8 West 
Sixty-sixth, Billy,” or “ 9 West Sixty-fifth, 
Billy,” to have him go at once to these ad- 
dresses, or any other with which he is 
familiar. Again, he will say: “ No milk 
here to-day, Billy,” and Billy jogs on. 

Then there is “ Dan Sorrel,” who draws 
the milk-wagon which takes the milk to 
Central Park Dairy every morning. His 
driver often amuses the children who gather 
about his pet by saying : 

“ Now, Dan, I believe you are a Demo- 
crat.” 

“No!” shakes the head. 

“What! a Republican?” 

“ Yes, yes, yes! ” and a stamping of both 
front feet, while the tail is slashed about 
like a banner to emphasize his sentiments. 

Dan is great fun. Nor must we forget 
our old pet “ Jingo ” of the mounted police- 
27 


STORIES OP HOSRES 


men’s horses; for he was truly wonderful, 
and I might go on almost endlessly telling 
of his remarkable sagacity and cleverness. 

Jingo and Wee Winkles were warm 
friends, for Winkles spent two winters in a 
home very near the West Seventy-second 
Street entrance to the Park, and each sun- 
shiny day carried her lump of sugar to 
Jingo, who would perform all sorts of tricks 
in order to win his reward. He would 
waltz, go down upon his knees, shake hands, 
fetch a pocket-handkerchief which she made 
believe she had dropped, whisper in his 
rider’s ear, and do many things besides. 

It is a never-ending source of surprise to 
me that so few people seem to understand 
the wonderful intelligence of horses, or the 
marvelous possibilities in developing that 
intelligence. 

All my life I have either had horses of 
my own or been so fortunately situated that 
I might make the acquaintance of those be- 
28 


STORIES OP HORSES 


longing to others. I use the word “ac- 
quaintance” advisedly, for on e must be- 
come acquainted, must be in sympathy with 
them, before they will show the best side of 
their horse natures. 

I have frequently stopped in the street 
beside a horse who looked as though life 
had been a hard struggle for him, and whose 
every line of face and attitude showed a 
stolid endurance of the inevitable, as if fate 
had settled his lot beyond all power to 
change, and nothing remained but to endure 
and wait until death put an end to it all. 
After standing for a few moments un- 
noticed, — as though the poor creature were 
thinking within itself, “ She is only one 
more, like all the rest, and will either pass 
on and take no notice of me, or say, ‘ Get 
out of the way, you brute,’ ” — I w T ould say 
softly, but without moving, “ Come here, 
old fellow.” 

At first there would not be the least 
29 


STORIES OF HORSES 


response, save, perhaps, the slight turn of 
an ear; but upon repeating it two or three 
times in exactly the same tone, the head 
would turn slowly toward me, and a look 
of surprise come into the tired eyes, as 
though a gentle word were a thing before 
unknown. 

At the third repetition I have rarely 
failed to have the poor old nose stretched 
out toward me for a gentle stroke, and the 
neck thus brought within reach of a kind 
pat. 

Not infrequently have I had the owner of 
some such unfortunate say to me, “ Hi, 
there ! Look out ! That horse ’ll bite ye ! ” 
and have replied, “ Oh, I think not; watch 
him a moment, and see if I am not right.” 

I well recall one such instance, when I 
went up to intercede for a poor beast that 
was being cruelly lashed because it could 
not draw a load which was far beyond its 
strength. 


30 


STORIES OP HORSES 


I begged the driver to desist, which, I 
add to his credit, he did at once, getting 
down oft his cart, whip in hand. As he did 
so I went up to the poor creature’s head, 
and was greeted with a series of snaps and 
plunges, as though his tormentors had 
driven him nearly wild. “ Don’t go within 
tin feet av the baste ! ” exclaimed the man. 
“ He’ll have the head off yer.” 

“ I hardly think so,” I said, and kept 
straight on, speaking softly and kindly to 
the trembling creature, while I reached out 
to take him by the rein. 

Up flew the head as if to avoid a blow, 
telling all too eloquently how often the poor 
muzzle had smarted from one. 

But dear Mother Nature is kind, and has 
endowed her dumb creatures with wonder- 
ful discerning powers ; so not many minutes 
had passed before the poor tired head was 
nestled close to me, and soft strokes and 
gentle words seemed to act as a seda- 
31 


STORIES OF HORSES 


tive upon nerves which were utterly un- 
strung. 

The man stood by, open-mouthed. “ Well, 
be all the powers! ” said he; “ the likes av 
that niver did I see in all me born days. I 
thought the baste would ate the very handle 
off me shovel ! ” 

“ He is better than you thought, is he 
not? ” 

“ Faith, I believe ye’ve bewitched him,” 
he answered. 

“ Yes,” I said, “ I have; but you can be- 
witch him in the same way if you will only 
try it. I wish you would.” 

All this is a long way from Big Jack, and 
we must not forget our chief character in 
our sympathies for his less fortunate kin- 
dred. 

But I want the little people who read this 
to realize how much that is lovable and 
beautiful dear Mother Nature has put right 
32 


STORIES OF HORSES 


in our daily paths, if we will only raise our 
eyes to see and our voices to win it; for 
surely it cannot fail to help us by develop- 
ing all that is best and loveliest in our- 
selves. 


33 


“BILLEE TAYLOR” 


“BILLEE TAYLOR” 


fT^HE rays of the afternoon sunshine 
came peeping across the high hedge to 
fall aslant the closely cut lawn which sloped 
to the beautiful river flowing so peacefully 
beyond. The hedge and the great trees 
cast long shadows upon the soft green 
grass, making a marked contrast to the 
brilliant patches of sunshine lying between. 

Crickets hopped about, singing their 
monotonous little songs, and insects floated 
in the sun’s warm rays, as though enjoying 
a golden shower bath. Under one of the 
great trees and comfortably resting in a big 
East India lawn chair, with its back drawn 
close to the hedge, sat, or rather half re- 
clined, a small person of about fifteen sum- 
37 


STORIES OF HORSES 


mers; while upon the grass beside her lay 
an atom of a black and tan terrier. 

The afternoon was very warm and still, 
and the drowsy, dreamy atmosphere had 
evidently had its influence upon little maid 
and little dog, for both had slipped away 
into dreamland. 

Four strokes ran out from the distant 
town clock, the distance causing the sound 
to be wonderfully mellowed, and, as though 
it were the signal for a new actor to appear 
upon the scene, the branches of the hedge 
just above the chair were pushed aside and 
a great head, with wonderfully soft eyes, 
peered through at the sleepers. It was fol- 
lowed by a long, gracefully arched sorrel 
neck, and “ Billee ” had introduced him- 
self. 

So gently had the hedge been parted that 
it scarcely rustled, and the young girl slept 
on undisturbed. 

But the owner of the great head had his 
38 


STORIES OF HORSES 


own ideas regarding the hours which should 
be devoted to slumber, and four o’clock, on 
a beautiful summer afternoon, was not one 
of them ; so he proceeded to rouse the 
sleepers. 

“ Hoo-hoo ; hoo-hoo-hoo,” came the soft, 
unspellable sound a horse makes when he 
greets you. But it only resulted in rousing 
the little terrier, who raised his head lazily 
and regarded the intruder with a rather 
surprised air. 

But the horse had no notion of failing in 
his undertaking, and at once proceeded to 
adopt more energetic measures. Stretch- 
ing his long neck still further through the 
opening in the hedge, he reached toward the 
sleeper, and taking very gentle hold of a 
stray lock of hair which fell across the back 
of the chair, gave it a slight pull with his 
soft, velvety lips, and then, as though terri- 
fied at the liberty he had taken, plunged 
back with a loud snort. 

39 


STORIES OF HORSES 


The pull, the snort, and the wild barking 
of the enraged little terrier produced such 
an instantaneous effect that he should have 
been highly gratified, for the girl bounded 
out of her chair and stood staring at the 
hedge in astonishment. But that looked 
innocent enough, and she would have turned 
elsewhere to learn the cause of her fright 
had she not caught sight of a shining pair of 
eyes which looked at her through the open- 
ing in the branches. 

She darted forward with a laugh, and 
parting the branches, she said : 

“ You scamp ! What do you mean by 
playing me such a trick? I’ve tried to coax 
you to come close to me time and time again 
when I’ve been wide awake, but you choose 
to take me at a disadvantage while I am in 
the land of Nod,” and she wagged her finger 
at him admoni shingly. 

Down went his head and up went his 
heels and tail ; for a few minutes it was diffi- 
40 


STORIES OF HORSES 


cult to tell which end of him touched the 
ground; and no boy ever gave more pro- 
nounced demonstrations of wild delight at 
the success of some prank than he gave of 
his, as, with a final and most abandoned 
kick-up, he went careering over the big field. 
Marion, for such was the girl’s name, made 
no attempt to coax him to come back ; well 
knowing that he must have his fling before 
settling down to more serious matters, and 
enjoying the spectacle most thoroughly ; for 
the horse was a beauty and never showed to 
greater advantage than when enjoying his 
freedom in the pasture. 

The superb head, with its splendid eyes, 
delicate, pointed ears and sensitive nostrils, 
was held high in the air; the gracefully 
arched neck, with its silky, flowing mane 
and full throbbing veins ; the dainty hoofs 
and slender limbs which supported the lithe, 
active body, appearing scarcely to touch the 
grass, and the long tail waving behind 
41 


STORIES OF HORSES 


like a triumphal banner, all were superbly 
beautiful. 

But, masculine member of society as he 
was, he was somewhat of a coquette, and 
soon tried new fascinations. Stopping 
suddenly in the midst of his wild career, he 
walked over to the hedge with his head 
lowered as demurely as a young miss. 
When within about ten feet of it he stopped, 
threw up his head, and gave a loud neigh. 

“ Now you know you are only doing that 
for effect,” said Marion, “ and I believe you 
just know how beautiful you look with the 
sun shining on your silky, sorrel coat as 
you stand there trying to make me believe 
you’re afraid, when you know perfectly well 
you’re not one bit. Come here, this 
minute; for this time I’m determined to 
touch you if I have to crawl through the 
hedge to do it,” and in another moment the 
girl stood in the field. 

One dainty hoof pawed the ground and 
42 


STORIES OF HORSES 


the head went up and down as though an- 
swering “yes,” but he did not advance a 
step. 

“ Are you coming? ” 

“ Hoo-hoo ; hoo-hoo-hoo ! ” 

“ Now does that mean ‘ yes ’ or ‘ no ’? ” 
Down went the head again. 

“ It means ‘ yes/ does it? Well, come on, 
then,” and she held out her hand coaxingly. 
Without a sign of warning he gave a bound 
which landed him beside her so suddenly 
that it was a marvel she did not make some 
demonstration of fear. But she did not, 
and the horse, who had a novel way of doing 
things, instantly made up his mind that this 
young lady was not easily frightened; con- 
sequently he decided to behave himself, and 
with a soft little whinny he put his silky 
head into her outstretched arms and stood 
as quiet as a lamb. 

Marion’s joy was unbounded, for, time 
and again during the summer she had tried 
43 


STORIES OF HORSES 


to make friends with the beautiful animal, 
only to find herself baffled at each attempt; 
and now he stood beside her and let her 
fondle and caress him as unreservedly as 
she would have caressed the little terrier, 
who stood beside her regarding the whole 
proceeding with a questioning look. 

“What do you think of him, Jingles?” 
she asked, and the terrier gave a little bark, 
which set jingling the tiny silver bells upon 
the collar, which had given him his name. 

Marion stood there caressing the horse for 
some time, enjoying his pranks and indulg- 
ing in subdued rapture over his affectionate 
little demonstrations, for, once won over, 
he seemed determined to make amends for 
former shortcomings and licked her hand, 
nibbled at her ruffles, laid his head across 
her shoulder and showed in every possible 
way that he had taken her for his friend ; 
when suddenly he raised his head and laid 
back his ears. 


44 


STORIES OP HORSES 


“ What is it, old fellow? What has dis- 
turbed you? ” she asked, well knowing that 
she was not the cause of the half-frightened, 
half-angry look which had come into his 
eyes. 

Whatever it was he evidently regarded it 
with distinct disfavor, for his whole atti- 
tude changed and one would hardly have 
recognized in him the same animal which a 
moment before had so captivated Marion. 

Up went the head and a still more fright- 
ened look crept into his eyes as a tall, heav- 
ily-built man, with a stupid face and 
features which spoke only 6f coarseness 
and brutality, came into view. 

“Hi! do yer want ter be killed?” he 
shouted in a harsh voice. “ Yer’d better 
keep away from that brute if yer don’t. 
He’s a perfect devil.” 

In an instant all the indignation and re- 
sentment in the young girl’s nature was 
aroused by this unjust accusation, for her 
45 


STORIES OF HORSES 


love for horses was so intense that she 
seemed to hold almost magical power over 
them, and her friends used often to say that 
they believed she possessed some secret 
means of communicating to them her own 
thoughts and reading theirs. 

However that might be, certain it was 
that they all loved her, from her own beauti- 
ful little pony to the greatest forlornity 
that ever bore harness, and her word rarely 
failed to win a response of some sort. 

Ever since her father had rented their 
pretty summer home in May, she had 
watched the beautiful young animal driven 
by the owner of the adjoining property, and, 
during the horse’s occasional days of free- 
dom in the pasture separated from her home 
by a high hedge, had striven to coax him to 
her. But with her keen intuitions she made 
up her mind that the animal was not kindly 
treated, and consequently lacked confidence 
in human beings. 


46 


STORIES OF HORSES 


“ But I shall yet win him over ; see if I 
don’t,” she had said to her father as she sat 
at breakfast that very morning, “ and I’ll 
find out the cause of his distrust as well ; or 
my name is not Marion.” 

“ I won’t try to dispute that, sweetheart, 
since I gave you the name myself,” replied 
her father as he rose from the table and 
came for his good-by kiss before leaving for 
town, “ so I dare say I shall soon have our 
four-footed neighbor’s biography.” 

“ You needn’t tease me,” she said, with a 
wag of her pretty head, “ I’m going to 
do it.” 

So now she stood confronting the owner 
of the unpleasant voice and more unpleas- 
ant personality, and her own voice quivered 
with indignation as she answered : 

“ Do you see anything very fiendish in 
him just at present? Perhaps you might 
find the angelic side of his nature, just as 
I have, if you would take pains to try.” 

47 


STORIES OF HORSES 


All this time, although quivering with 
apprehension, the horse had stood perfectly 
still with the girPs arm resting protectingly 
across his withers. 

“ Is he your horse? ” she continued, for 
the man had stopped stock-still to regard 
the great animal’s intrepid little defender 
with amazement. 

“Naw! he aint that; and I don’t want 
him neither. He belongs to the boss up 
yander. But I’ve got to take care of him, 
and if he don’t look out I’ll kill him some 
day, if he don’t get a lick at me first. Here, 
come on out o’ that, the boss wants ye,” 
and he made a grab at the horse’s fore- 
lock. 

Up flew the nervous creature’s head as 
though to avoid a blow, to which, undoubt- 
edly, he was only too well accustomed, and 
in so doing he hit the hard bridge of his 
nose against the man’s chin, causing him to 
bite his tongue. With a furious oath he 
48 


STORIES OF HORSES 

drew back his huge fist and dealt the horse 
a cruel blow upon his soft muzzle. 

With the pathetic cry a wounded horse 
gives, the poor creature fell almost upon his 
haunches, and then, with a superb bound, 
leaped clear and clean over the man’s head. 

It had all happened in a few seconds, but 
those few seconds had been sufficient to 
arouse within the girl’s soul all the fury of 
righteous anger, and with a wild cry of, 
“ Oh, how dare you do such a cruel thing ! 
How dare you, when you know he did not 
mean to hurt you ! ” she caught hold of the 
man by both his arms and shook him till his 
teeth fairly chattered. Then, pushing him 
from her, she cried: “Now go! You are 
not fit to have the care of a wild bull, let 
alone such a splendid creature as that, and 
you shall never, never touch him again if I 
can prevent it.” 

Never probably in all his life had this 
great, strong man encountered such a little 
49 


STORIES OF HORSES 


fury as now confronted him with flashing 
eyes and crimson cheeks. The girl’s whole 
nature rose in wrath against such injustice, 
and for the time being she was beside her- 
self, and all thoughts of “ Mrs. Grundy ” 
flew to the four winds. 

Too astonished to speak, he stood like a 
wooden image staring straight at her, 
then, as she stamped her pretty little foot 
and pointed toward the gate, he turned 
and slunk oft toward the distant stables; 
for once, at least, dealt with as he deserved, 
although it had fallen to the lot of a girl 
of fifteen to administer justice. 

“ Oh, Jingles,” she cried, now almost in 
tears, “ wasn’t it awful ! Come quick and 
we will look after the dear fellow,” and she 
ran swiftly to the far end of the field in 
which the frightened horse had taken 
refuge. 

There he stood with his poor head hang- 
ing dejectedly down, and the blood dripping 
50 


STORIES OF HORSES 

from the cut nostril. Marion approached 
him very quietly, fearing that his recent 
cruel treatment might have undone all she 
had striven so patiently to gain, but the in- 
telligent animal had learned more than one 
lesson that day, and the girl had won his 
confidence forever. 

Taking the poor, smarting muzzle in her 
soft, white hands, she examined it closely 
and found the cut to be a bad one. “ If I 
only had some water,” she said to herself, 
“ I could bathe it. I know, I’ll lead him 
to that spring down at the edge of the field,” 
and untying the pretty Roman sash from 
her waist, she placed it very gently around 
the horse’s neck, and, saying in her sweet 
voice, “ Come along, dear,” she led him 
quietly beside her. 

Her dainty linen handkerchief served to 
bathe the injured nose, and when the bleed- 
ing was stanched she turned toward the 
gate, intending to lead her patient home, 

51 


STORIES OF HORSES 


little realizing what a pretty picture she 
made as she came across the fields with the 
afternoon sunlight falling upon her beauti- 
ful brown hair and pretty white gown, 
with one hand leading the handsome sorrel 
horse by his gay silken leader, while 
the other was laid caressingly across his 
neck. 

To the gentleman standing concealed be- 
hind a clump of evergreens just beyond the 
gate it seemed the prettiest sight he had 
ever looked upon, and a pleasing ending to 
the harrowing one to which he had been an 
unseen witness. 

Slipping from his hiding-place as the girl 
approached, he advanced with outstretched 
hand, saying : “ Little neighbor, I have 

more than one thing for which to thank you 
this afternoon, but the greatest is for your 
heroic defense of my horse. Don’t try to 
tell me anything about it,” as Marion gave 
a slight start and opened her lips to speak, 

52 


STORIES OF HORSES 


— “ I saw the whole occurrence from begin- 
ning to end, and now I know why one of my 
most valuable animals has thus far in his 
career been pronounced vicious.’’ 

“ Oh, he isn’t ! I know he isn’t,” ex- 
claimed his champion. 

“ So do I, — now , but I have been a long 
time learning it, and, but for you, I should 
probably never have done so; since that 
man, upon whom you wreaked your venge- 
ance,” and here a rather amused smile 
curved the corners of Mr. Ryder’s lips, 
“ was cunning enough to conceal his true 
disposition when in my presence.” 

Marion colored slightly, and said : “ I 

know it was a dreadful thing to do, and I 
don’t know what papa will say when I tell 
him about it, but I was so angry that I just 
couldn’t keep still.” 

“ It is fortunate for Billy that you did 
not, or his future might have been a mis- 
erable one; might it not, old fellow?” he 
53 


STORIES OF HORSES 


answered as he reached out to take the 
horse’s leader. But Billy’s faith in man- 
kind had been sorely shaken, and he started 
aside. “ Tut, tut ! ” said Mr. Ryder, “ this 
is a bad business, and I think I shall have 
to impose upon your friendship for Billy 
by asking you to lead him to the stable for 
me, since he seems so fearful of ill-treat- 
ment. What is your name, little maid? 
We have been neighbors six weeks, but I 
am so rarely home that I am almost a 
stranger here.” 

“ Marion Taylor,” was the reply. “ Come, 
Billy,” she added, “ I didn’t know your 
name before, but we got acquainted, didn’t 
we, dear? ” and she laid her flushed face 
against the warm, silky neck. “ Have you 
more horses?” she asked as they walked 
along together. 

“ Yes, a large number, for I raise them. 
Billy, here, is one of my handsomest, and, 
but for his unfortunate disposition, he 
54 


STORIES OF HORSES 


would be the most valuable. I understand 
him better now, I think.’’ 

“ Oh, I hope so ! He is so beautiful, and 
I am sure he would love me dearly if I could 
see him every day. May I ? ” 

“ You certainly may, and tell your father 
that Mr. Ryder will give himself the 
pleasure of calling upon him this evening,” 
he said, as he shook hands with her and said 
good-by at the stable door. 

Marion, with Jingles at her heels, ran 
swiftly home across the field, while Mr. 
Ryder went in quest of the delinquent Sam, 
with whom he had an interview — brief, but 
very much to the point. A few hours later 
he was seated on Mr. Taylor’s delightful 
piazza enjoying with him an after-dinner 
cigar as they talked, for they soon discov- 
ered that theirs was really an old acquaint- 
ance rather than a new one, since both had 
been students at the same university years 
before. 


55 


STORIES OF HORSES 


When Mr. Ryder said good-night at 
eleven o’clock, Billy had become Mr. Tay- 
lor’s property, for the latter had long been 
in search of a well-trained saddle-horse for 
Marion, and was glad to find such a desir- 
able one. 

“ Marion will cure any peculiarities of 
disposition he may possess,” he said ; “ the 
child loves horses better than she loves peo- 
ple, I believe ; at all events, she understands 
them better and they her.” 

“ You missed a good deal by not seeing 
her this afternoon,” replied Mr. Ryder. 
u By Jove! she gave it to Sam in good, 
round, set terms. I don’t believe the fellow 
has recovered yet,” and he laughed as he re- 
called the little girl’s righteous wrath. 

As Marion stood upon the piazza next 
morning she was surprised to see Billy led 
in at the gate. 

“Why, papa,” she called to her father, 
who sat in the dining room behind her, 
56 


STORIES OF HORSES 

“ they are bringing Billy in here; what does 
it mean? ” 

“ It means, little daughter,” said her 
father, as he joined her, “ that Mr. Ryder 
and I have decided that you are to be Billy’s 
future mistress, since you have evidently 
won his confidence and love. You need a 
saddle-horse, and he is perfectly trained. 
Add this pet to your many others, for I dare 
say your heart is large enough to hold even 
Billy.” 

A note addressed to Miss Marion Taylor 
was handed to her by the groom, and con- 
tained the following message : “ For Billy’s 
champion, with whom I hope he may dwell 
long and serve faithfully, and henceforth be 
known, not as Billy Ryder, but as 6 Billee 
Taylor.’ ” From that moment “ Billee’s ” 
life was revolutionized, and he was as happy 
as his days were long. 

Marion tended him herself until the poor 
nose was quite healed. Billee’s gratitude 
57 


STORIES OF HORSES 


was boundless, and he showed it in every 
possible way. Could he have done so he 
would have followed his beloved young mis- 
tress straight into the house, and very often, 
indeed, he did follow her on to the piazza. 

Her pony was rather small for the saddle, 
so Billee was always used for riding; and 
many a delightful canter they had; the 
beautiful animal fully realizing how pre- 
cious was the burden he carried, and swing- 
ing along as smoothly as a rocking-chair. 

Long after the sore nose was entirely 
well Billee remembered the cruel blow, and 
when Marion said, “ Poor Billee, where did 
he get hurt? ” the comical fellow would lift 
up his head and raise his upper lip to show 
the scar, which he still carried upon it and 
his nostril. In a wonderfully short time 
his nervousness, and what had seemed to be 
a sort of resentment toward mankind in gen- 
eral, entirely vanished, and he became the 
sweetest-tempered animal one could* wish 
58 


STORIES OF HORSES 

for, and as full of pranks and mischief as a 
kitten. 

Marion could always control him with a 
word, and even in the midst of one of his 
wildest pranks, her voice was sufficient to 
bring him back to his senses. 

He and Toddles, the pony, became fast 
friends, and it was a common thing for the 
neighbors to see Marion seated upon the 
lawn with Billee, Toddles, Jingles, and the 
two kittens, Blink and Wink, lying or 
standing beside her. No matter where she 
went, whether it was for a stroll by the 
river, a walk to the post office, or a drive be- 
hind little Toddles, if Billee caught sight of 
her he was determined to follow her, and, 
if prevented by his groom from so doing, 
would neigh to her as long as she was in 
sight. 

While prowling about his stable yard one 
afternoon he somehow managed to pick up 
a nail and, as though he were sure that his 
59 


STORIES OF HORSES 


beloved mistress would help him, he whin- 
nied and whinnied until his groom came to 
learn the cause. Seeing the horse limp, the 
man tried to take up his foot to examine it, 
but Billee preferred selecting his own sur- 
geon, and although he could scarcely hobble, 
he pushed past his groom, who let him go, 
and limped to the front of the house, where 
he felt certain of finding his mistress. 
She was seated in her favorite chair near 
the hedge, and with a glad neigh he hobbled 
up to her and held up the lame foot. 

“ Why, Billee dear! what is the matter? ” 
she cried, and, jumping up, she took the 
poor foot into her hands. Billee poked his 
nose down and made a queer grunting sort 
of sound, as though trying to tell her his 
trouble. 

“ Yes, dear, I see what it is ; we will soon 
have it out,” she said, and Thomas was sum- 
moned and the nail removed. 

“ Now come with me, Billee, and we will 
60 


STORIES OP HORSES 


fix it all comfortable,” and she led him back 
to his stall. 

She soon had the feverish foot standing 
in a tub of oil meal, and, bidding him “ be 
a good horse and not take his foot out of the 
tub till she gave him leave,” she left him. 
A dozen times a day during the four or five 
that followed, she went out to pour cold 
water on the ankle and see that the foot 
was properly cared for, and each time she 
appeared Billee’s joy was boundless, and 
he would hold up his foot to have it 
dressed. 

Such constant care could not fail to effect 
a prompt cure, and in a week’s time Billee 
was as frisky as ever. But he never forgot 
his lame foot, and ever after, when he felt 
particularly in need of sympathy, would 
put on a make-believe limp, and if Marion 
said “ Poor Billee Taylor, he has such a 
lame foot,” the rogue would hold it up, put 
his nose down to it, and give voice to a low 
61 


STORIES OP HORSES 


snicker, as though trying to tell the story 
all over again. 

Billee’s life was like the good prince’s in 
the fairy tales: “ He lived long and hap- 
pily, and died at a ripe old age.” 


62 


CHARLIE & CO. 




CHARLIE & CO 


C HARLIE was distinctly a local char- 
acter. I doubt if he could claim any 
special distinction even in his own town, 
and yet among his few friends he held an 
enviable place, for they loved and trusted 
him, and neither the love nor the trust was 
misplaced. 

It is more than five years ago since we 
first met Charlie & Co., and even then 
neither of the partners was young nor hand- 
some, But they commanded our attention. 

It was in the summer of 1894 that I was 
sitting upon the piazza of a friend’s home in 
the pretty suburban town of Elton. It was 
about four o’clock, and as I sat drinking in 
the beauty of the sunshine and the shadow 
as they flickered upon the soft green lawn, 
65 


STORIES OF HORSES 


I heard the measured pat-pat of a horse’s 
footfall. Alive to the slightest sound, either 
regular or irregular, in the footfall of the 
animal I love best of all my fourfooted 
friends, I instantly recognized in this one 
an unfamiliar sound, as though the animal 
making it had a mode of navigation peculiar 
to itself. 

As I glanced up the sound suddenly 
ceased, and I saw standing at the foot of the 
driveway a bay horse harnessed to a milk- 
wagon. It would have been difficult for me 
to tell what there was in the animal to dis- 
tinguish him from a dozen others which 
might have stopped at the door, but there 
was an indefinable something , and I 
watched him, feeling instinctively that 
something interesting would develop. Nor 
did my instinct mislead me. The driver of 
the horse, an elderly man, whose kindly 
face and scrupulous neatness were in per- 
fect harmony with the contented look worn 
66 


STORIES OP HORSES 


by the animal he drove, and with its glossy, 
shining coat, which testified to the care 
given to it, stepped from his wagon and 
then turned to take from it a wire stand 
filled with jars of rich, creamy milk, and 
started with them toward the kitchen at the 
rear of the house. 

As his driver left him the horse turned 
back one ear, but further than that gave no 
evidence that he was at all interested in the 
man’s movements. But directly the sound 
of his footfalls had ceased to be heard, the 
pretty bay head, with the softest of velvety 
white noses and big brown eyes, was turned 
quite around in order to have a good look 
into the wagon — for, happily, the headstall 
had no blinders. Evidently all was as it 
should be, and with a nod of his head, as 
though saying “ yes,” the animal started 
off. 

My first impulse was to call out “ whoa,” 
but something in the wise, self-contained 
67 


STORIES OF HORSES 


air of the creature compelled me to await 
developments. 

Curving well outward, that the wheels of 
the wagon need not come in contact with 
the curbstone, the horse started down the 
street, crossing immediately to the right 
side in order to obey the rule of the highway 
which says, “ Keep to the right.” Passing 
four or five houses, he stopped at one, and, 
bringing his wagon close to the curb, turned 
and looked around. A moment later his 
driver reappeared and followed his busi- 
ness partner across the street. Again the 
milk jars were taken from the wagon, and 
again the horse started on, this time to the 
second house. It was funny enough to 
watch him; he was as familiar with the 
route, and the time necessary for each 
delivery, as his master, and evidently felt 
as much responsibility. 

Turning to my friend, who just then 
joined me upon the piazza, I asked : 

68 


STORIES OF HORSES 


“ Who is the milkman whose horse seems 
as familiar with the milk route as he him- 
self does? ” 

“ Oh, it is Mr. Harris, and he is as kind as 
he looks. His horse Charlie is amusing, is 
he not? Yes, he knows the customers as well 
as Mr. Harris does, and we always speak of 
them as ‘ Charlie & Co.’ I doubt if Mr. Har- 
ris could get on without his silent partner.” 

“ Does the horse always act as he has to- 
day? ” 

“ Invariably. He is as punctual and 
methodical as his master is neat and kind- 
hearted. They have served me with milk 
for many years, and I should not be able to 
keep house without them, I believe.” 

“ I shall not forget them,” I replied, “ and 
if I ever make Elton my home, I shall cer- 
tainly give my order to ‘ Charlie & Co.’ ” 

A few months later we removed to Elton, 
and I lost no time in requesting Charlie & 
Co. to include our home in their daily 
69 


STORIES OF HORSES 


rounds. It was at that period that I became 
well acquainted with Charlie and learned 
to appreciate his wonderful intelligence, 
and the clever ways which so endeared him 
to his master. 

Twice daily did Charlie appear at my 
door, and it was not long before it became 
his favorite stopping-place, for at it he 
rarely failed to receive an apple, a biscuit, 
and at last, when he had acquired a taste 
for it, a lump of sugar. But this was dis- 
tinctly a cultivated taste, and his efforts to 
learn to like the dainty were funny beyond 
words to express. My little daughter was 
the first to cultivate Charlie’s taste for 
sweets, and rarely a day passed that she 
did not watch for his coming and have 
ready the dainty. 

Charlie had a peculiar gait, which was 
probably the result of having been used 
under the saddle in his younger days. It 
was neither a pace, nor yet a trot, but a 
10 


STORIES OF HORSES 


sort of cross between the two, and when he 
desired to hasten it he broke into a distinct 
canter. Directly he left the nearest neigh- 
bor’s at whose house he was forced to stop 
before reaching his little friend’s home, 
Charlie, in the words of dear Lewis Carroll, 
would come “ gallumping ” — no other word 
will express it — for his dainty. The dear 
old head would be put close down to the 
arms waiting to caress him, and after a 
bit of affectionate demonstration on both 
sides, the proffered lump of sugar would be 
taken, toyed with a moment by the velvety 
lips, bitten in two, and held while Charlie 
seemed thinking the matter over, meantime 
looking at his little friend and shaking his 
head wisely. 

“ Eat it, Charlie ; it’s delicious,” the little 
one would say. But Charlie had his own 
ideas on the subject, and was not to be hur- 
ried. It was not until he had thoroughly 
tested this new article of diet, turned it over 

n 


STORIES OF HORSES 


upon his tongue, crunched it with his nip- 
pers, that he finally decided it was really 
intended to go the way of oats and hay. 

“ Ye jest spoil ’im, missie,” his master 
would say. “ I can’t get ’im to stop ’alf a 
minute at the other ’ouses, ’e’s that crazy 
to get on to you and fis sugar. Come on 
now, you old good-for-nothing, and get 
along to the other customers who’ll be 
wantin’ their milk ! ” And his master 
would climb into the wagon and slash at 
him with a whip whose length of lash was a 
mockery. 

One of Charlie’s besetting sins was his 
determination to get a bite of grass when- 
ever the opportunity offered. As a rule his 
check-rein, put on him for that very reason, 
prevented him from reaching the grass 
which grew beside the average curbstone, 
but just opposite our home was a terrace a 
foot or more high, and this was Charlie’s 
Mecca. 


72 


STORIES OP HORSES 


When there came a day which was too 
stormy for his little friend to meet him, the 
terrace at the opposite side of the street 
came into service. But don’t for a moment 
fancy that he ever started for it so long as 
he heard his master’s footfalls — ah, no! he 
was far too wise for that. But once Mr. 
Harris was safely disposed of in his cus- 
tomer’s kitchen, then Charlie would calmly 
start for the terrace, which the length of 
his check-rein just permitted him to reach, 
and for about three minutes enjoy unalloyed 
bliss. The instant he heard his master’s 
returning steps he was at once overwhelmed 
with business cares, and started off for his 
next customer’s house as hard as he could 
go. 

I would that it lay in my power to con- 
vey to you some slight idea of Charlie’s 
“ cuteness ” — for only that Yankee word 
will express it. The intelligent eyes told how 
well he understood every word his master 
73 


STORIES OF HORSES 


spoke to him, and their softness told his 
affection for that master who cared for him 
so faithfully. 

In summer and winter, through sunshine 
and through storm, did Charlie bring us 
milk, and I wish I could tell those who read 
this simple little history that he still does 
so; but dear old Charlie, who so loved and 
was beloved by his master, gave his life to 
save that master from a frightful death. 

In the spring of ’98 we removed to an- 
other house, and Charlie had few customers 
in the new street and had never stopped at 
that particular house. In order to test his 
memory our little daughter resolved to go 
out to the curbstone the first evening w T e 
spent in the new home, and, without saying 
a word, stand there and wait for Charlie to 
recognize her as he came along. A little 
before four o’clock she saw him trot-pacing 
toward her, and was instantly recognized 
by him and greeted with a soft “ hoo-hoo- 
74 


STORIES OF HORSES 


hoo,” as though he considered it undignified 
to whinny aloud while in harness. From 
that time Charlie needed no guiding, and 
after partaking of his sugar, went upon his 
way to a neighbor’s two doors beyond. 

We two were his only customers in that 
street, and during the summer Mrs. Thomp- 
son’s house was closed for several weeks. 
At first Charlie was determined to go on to 
the closed house, and not until he had re- 
ceived most peremptory orders to “ stand 
still, now, and wait till I come back; don’t 
you know those folks aren’t there now? ” 
and had been summarily turned around and 
headed in the opposite direction did he 
grasp the situation ; but once it was settled 
in the horse-mind, all was plain sailing for 
both horse and driver, and directly the jars 
of milk had vanished around the corner of 
our house, Charlie would turn his wagon 
carefully around and stand perfectly still 
to await his master’s return; for the next 
75 


STORIES OF HORSES 


customer’s house was many blocks away, 
and Charlie had no notion of making Mr. 
Harris walk to it. We often wondered how 
he reasoned it all out, but he certainly did, 
and never by any chance missed a customer 
or gave his master an uncomfortably long 
walk. 

Charlie’s place in this world was indeed 
a humble one, but the example he set might 
be followed with advantage by many a hu- 
man being. At two o’clock each afternoon 
Charlie would watch his master as he 
milked his herd of sleek cows. He knew 
just how their turns came and exactly how 
long it would take to milk “ Jinny ” and 
“ Bossy ” and “ Buttercup ” and “ Daffy,” 
and so on down the herd of ten or a dozen ; 
and while they were milked Charlie poked 
about the barnyard. He appreciated a joke, 
and was neve 1 * happier than when his mas- 
ter was the object of it. He would fre- 
quently come up softly behind Mr. Harris, 
*76 


STORIES OF HORSES 


who was very hard of hearing, and thrust 
his warm nose over his master’s shoulder as 
he sat upon a milking stool, and when Mr. 
Harris, giving a start which nearly proved 
fatal to the contents of the shining pall, 
turned about to shake his fist at the horse 
and cry “ Get along out of the way, you 
scamp ! ” Charlie would seem as delighted 
over the prank as a child. 

One day Charlie was unusually winsome, 
and, as Mr. Harris prepared to take his 
place in the wagon, he stopped to stroke the 
soft neck and say : 

“ Eh, Charlie, you’re a great plague, but 
it would be ’ard getting another like you,” 
— little dreaming how soon he would have 
to supply the faithful Charlie’s place. They 
started off for a customer whose house stood 
just a little beyond the railroad track. 
There were no gates at that crossing, and 
Mr. Harris was too hard of hearing to real- 
ize his danger from the approaching express 
11 


STORIES OF HORSES 

train, already thundering around the curve 
above. But Charlie was not deaf, and he 
did his best to hold back from the track; 
but his master, impatient at his delay, 
which he could not understand, called 
sharply to him to go on. Obedient to the 
last, Charlie went, but he could not seem to 
make up his mind to bring the wagon be- 
hind him upon the track. Planting himself 
firmly between the rails, he stood fast and 
met his doom. An instant later the great 
iron monster came crashing upon him, tear- 
ing him out of the wagon, whose shafts 
snapped like pipe-stems, and hurling the 
poor creature a hundred feet beyond. When 
the train was brought to a standstill, and 
the frightened passengers and engineer hur- 
ried to the scene of disaster, all that was 
left of poor, faithful Charlie was a lifeless 
form lying upon the grass beside the track. 
But even in death he had testified to his 
affection and faithfulness, for had he not 
78 


STORIES OF HORSES 

stood firm to receive the death blow rather 
than lead his master into danger? Is it to 
be wondered that tears filled that master’s 
eyes when he bent over the lifeless form of 
his faithful horse? 

And so Charlie, kind, gentle, faithful, 
Charlie, came into and passed out of our 
lives. Faithful and true, he proved to us 
that even a dumb creature may teach beau- 
tiful lessons that we all will do well to re- 
member. 


79 


GRAY LADY’S ONLY SON 



GRAY LADY’S ONLY SON 

PART I 

A NOVEL TRANSPORTATION COMPANY 

I T was a warm September afternoon 
“ down to the cape,” as the local phrase 
runs. The drowsy little hamlet consisted, 
first, of a small wooden railway station, not 
unlike an immense drygoods box in which 
some frugal-minded Yankee had cut holes 
to serve for a door and two windows, and 
then in a moment of reckless extravagance 
had painted a dull red; next, a church, 
which appeared to have been dropped there 
by mistake; and last, of a few farmhouses, 
which had no doubt been there since the 
days of Governor Bradford. Over the door 

83 


STORIES OF HORSES 

of the station was the sign “ Post Office,” 
and, consequently, one had reason to believe 
that “ Uncle Sam ” had some claim upon 
this sleepy little settlement. Not a store 
was to be seen ; not a sign of business any- 
where. Even the railroad station was de- 
serted; for no train would come up from 
Province Town until six o’clock, and the 
one going “ down cape ” stopped only on 
signal. So the station agent, who was also 
postmaster, was absent in a distant field, 
busily stacking corn. The sun beat down 
upon the sandy road from which the hot air 
arose in quivering waves. Across from the 
station lay a large field surrounded by a 
“ post-rail ” fence, and standing by the bars, 
with her head hanging lazily over the top- 
most one, was an old gray mare with her 
colt beside her. She seemed half asleep, for 
her eyes were closed and occasionally her 
head would nod exactly like that of a 
drowsy old woman, and bring her throat 
84 


STORIES OF HORSES 

bumping against the rail. That served to 
rouse her for a moment, but she would 
presently slip off again into dreamland, 
perhaps to relive the days when she had 
been able to skim over the ground with 
the best of her kind ; for “ Gray Lady ” 
came of famous stock, and the colt at 
her side gave fair promise of inheriting 
his mother’s good qualities. Just now, 
however, he seemed principally made up 
of legs and a scraggy mane; but the eyes 
below the “ bristle ” were wonderfully soft, 
and looked out between the bars with the 
half-mischievous, half-pleading look one 
often sees in a child. The delicate little 
muzzle was as soft as a moleskin. The tiny 
lips nibbled at the lichens on the rail, and, 
not finding these particularly satisfying, 
began to fuss about the mother’s warm neck, 
creeping gradually upward until they 
reached her head, where they found a tempt- 
ing plaything, and she was rudely roused 
85 


STORIES OF HORSES 

from her reveries by having her ear sharply 
pinched. 

With a squeal she jerked her head out of 
reach, and the colt, as if highly elated with 
his prank, went careering over the field, his 
long legs executing some very extraordi- 
nary feats ; for he was only six months old. 

As he pranced off a shrill whistle was 
heard, and a moment later a boy, about 
twelve years of age, came down the dusty 
road, dragging behind him a nondescript 
sort of vehicle evidently of home manu- 
facture, since it consisted of a plank fast- 
ened upon the wheels of a baby carriage, 
f The boy was barefooted; his clothes had 
seen long service; likewise his hat, for a 
rent in the crown afforded so free a circula- 
tion of air that there was no danger of his 
ever becoming bald for lack of it. Evi- 
dently he was no stranger, for the instant 
Gray Lady heard his whistle she raised her 
head, the sleepy look giving place to a very 
86 


STORIES. OF HORSES 


alert one, as she began to whinny softly. 
When he came within sight of her he 
shouted : “ Hi ! old Lady, be you a-lookin’ 
for me? Reckon I’m on time, though ; train 
haint gone down yit, an’ yer can’t never 
expect me afore that, yer know.” 

As he talked he lifted a small basket of 
apples from the wagon. Lady snorted and 
whinnied, and, the sound reaching her fly- 
away son, he stopped short in his wild 
career. Without turning, he glanced over 
his shoulder and gave a funny little imita- 
tion of his mother’s greeting. 

“ You come along back here. I aint a 
gonter come tramplin’ clear off there after 
you, and don’t you think it,” called the boy. 
“ Sonny ” gave an independent little toss 
of his head as though to say : “ I’m not 
forced to come, but I will, since it is you,” 
and then started across the field ; his funny, 
long legs flying about in the most aimless 


manner. 


87 


STORIES OF HORSES 


“ Now old Lady, I’ll give you your 
spread first, ’cause you was on hand ter say 
‘ howdy,’ you know ” ; and, taking up his 
basket, he began to feed one apple at a time 
to his four-footed friend. This was too 
much for Sonny, who had got scent of the 
fruit and was determined to have his share. 

The dainty muzzle was thrust over the 
boy’s shoulder as he stood feeding Lady; 
then it was poked into his hands and 
rubbed against his coat, and, as a last re- 
sort, when all these hints proved futile, 
a very vigorous nip was given to his 
arm. 

“ Hi, you young scamp ! What are you 
up to? Is thet the way you mean to treat 
me after I lugged all these apples over 
here? Now just you hold on; you didn’t 
care a cent about me till you found out I 
had somethin’, did you? That’s just like 
some folks ; they aint got no use fer a feller 
except ter knock him ’round till they git a 
88 


STORIES OF HORSES 


notion lie’s wuth somethin’ to them, and 
then — oh, my! aint they sweet? Reckon 
I’ve learned somethin’ o’ that game. Now 
don’t yon try it on, fer you an’ yer ma is all 
the friends I got, and if you go back on me 
I’ll plumb give out. So come on and let’s 
be friends.” After this bit of moralizing he 
put his arms about the warm little neck and 
he and Sonny “ made love ” in the most ap- 
proved style. 

While the three cronies were indulging 
in this bit of equine and human sentiment a 
shrill whistle announced the approach of the 
down train. 

“ There ! ” exclaimed the boy, " you hear 
that? That means the mail bag; and I’ve 
got to go pick it up; like ’nough ’taint got 
mor’n one letter anyhow. Hullo! There 
go two more toots; reckon they’re a-goin’ 
ter set down a visitor this trip and I’ll be 
called upon ter tote their ‘ Saratogie ’ up 
ter the ‘ Summer Hotel ’ — meanin’ old 
89 


STORIES OF HORSES 

Grump Wheeler’s attic chamber,” he added 
with a comical grin as he scudded across the 
road. 

When the mail bag was tossed off he 
picked it up with an educated toe, deftly 
landed it upon his wagon, then squatted 
upon it to await further developments. 
After depositing an immense valise upon the 
platform, the conductor lifted down a 
cripple child of about seven or eight years 
of age, and looked helplessly around for a 
place to seat her. A delicate looking wo- 
man, evidently her mother, quickly followed 
and placed beneath the child’s arms the 
crutches she carried for her. 

“ It is strange that Ruth isn’t here to 
meet us,” said she. “ Do you know of any- 
one who can take us up to my sister’s 
house? ” 

“ Can’t say as I do,” answered the con- 
ductor. “ Wish I could stop and help you 
out, but I can’t,” and he waved his hand 
90 


STORIES OF HORSES 

to the engineer and sprang aboard his 
train. 

The woman stood looking helplessly 
about and the child thumped across the plat- 
form on her crutches, as though the motion 
was a relief from standing. Catching sight 
of the boy, the woman walked quickly over 
to him and asked : “ Is there a wagon of any 
kind that I can get to take us where we want 
to go?” 

“ That depends on where you’re a-goin’,” 
was the laconic reply. 

“To Mrs. Caleb Parker’s; she is my sis- 
ter. I wrote to her to expect us by this 
train, but I’m afraid she did not receive the 
letter, for she would have sent to meet us 
if she had.” 

“ When did you send the letter and where 
did you send it from? ” asked the boy. 

“ I sent it yesterday morning from Bos- 
ton.” 

“ Then it’s right snug in this very bag I’m 
91 


STORIES OF HORSES 


sittin’ on this minit, fur there aint been no 
mail sense this time yistiddy.” 

“ Dear me! dear me! What am I to do? 
Is it far to Mrs. Parker’s? ” 

“ Nigh ’bout a mile, I reckon.” 

“ Is there anybody you can get to carry 
us over? ” 

“ Don’t know nobody, less it’s Squire 
Davis, an’ his house is on a spell beyond 
Mrs. Parker’s. Most of the men folks is out 
shuckin’ their corn, like Pop Bates up yon- 
der. He’s the station agent. See him? ” 

“ Couldn’t he help us? ” 

The boy laughed : “ Mebby he could if yer 
could make him understand what yer 
wanted, but he’s as deef as that post yon- 
der.” He pointed to the post-rail fence 
across the road, and then, as though the ac- 
tion had suggested something, he hopped 
up, saying: “ Say, I’ll tell yer what yer can 
do, if yer will. Like as not yer’ll be scared 
ter; but yer needn’t, fer Lady’s as steady as 
92 


STORIES OP HORSES 


a rock and wouldn’t harm nothin’. She 
often pulls me all round the lot, but old 
Wheeler, the man what she belongs to, don’t 
know it; he’d caterpillar, sure, if he did.” 

The woman did not ask what physical or 
mental condition was implied as a possibil- 
ity for “ old Wheeler ” should he gain a 
knowledge of Lady’s performance, but she 
hastened to say : “ If you know of some way 
of getting us there pray tell it quickly, for 
Lucy is nearly ready to drop.” 

“ Will you let her ride on my wagon if I 
fix it up for her? ” 

“ Certainly ; but you will never be able to 
draw her and this great satchel all that dis- 
tance.” 

“ I aint a-gonter ; Lady yonder will,” and 
he gave a funny laugh as he scampered 
across the sandy road. 

Placing around the mare’s neck a piece 
of rope which he had picked up from the 
station platform, he then let down the bars 
93 


STORIES OP HORSES 


and led her out, “ Now, look a-here, old 
Lady, you’ve got ter be on yer very primest 
behavior, ’cause I’ve give my word fer yer. 
Do yer hear? So mind what I’m a-sayin’,” 
and he led her in front of his wagon. Pick- 
ing up the rope with which he had drawn it, 
he tied it firmly to Lady’s long tail. 

“ There, ma’am ! How’s that fer a swell 
Boston Common broosh?” 

“ Why, she will never in this world draw 
it that way; your wagon will be kicked to 
atoms.” 

“ Will it? Just see now,” and, stretching 
himself full length upon it and crossing his 
arms beneath his head, he called out, “ Git 
along, Lady.” Lady gave one inquiring 
look behind to see that all was right ; 
whisked her tail about to be sure that all 
was fairly hitched, and, calling her son to 
her side, marched off down the road as 
sedately as though she were harnessed to a 
farm wagon. Sonny capered along beside 
94 


STORIES OF HORSES 


her or stopped to poke his nose into the 
boy’s face. They certainly presented a com- 
ical spectacle, for the boy had crossed his 
legs and one bare foot stuck straight up in 
the air. 

After they had journeyed about twenty 
rods he called out : “ Halt ! ” and Lady 
stopped. “ Right about face, forward 
march ! ” cried the boy, and Lady calmly 
turned herself about and marched back to 
the station. 

“ Well, I never! If that don’t beat all I 
ever heard tell of,” exclaimed the woman. 
“Well, come along; we’ve got to get there 
somehow, and this seems the only way.” 

“ Wait a minit and I’ll fix it all hunky,” 
cried the boy, and, running down to the end 
of the platform, he picked up a lot of po- 
tato sacks which were lying there. These 
he piled on the wagon, then, wadding some 
of them up for a pillow, he said : “ There 

you are, ma’am, fine as a fiddle.” 

95 


STORIES OF HORSES 


Together they placed the little invalid 
upon the queer vehicle, and after settling 
the big valise at her feet, as a sort of bunker 
in case Lady should prove resentful, the boy 
took the leader and off they started. It was 
a funny enough procession and would have 
drawn a smile from the dullest. 

As they trudged along through the sand 
the woman asked : “ How did you come to 
try such a prank as this, Fd like to know? 
What is your name? ” 

“ Bob Slocum,” he replied, answering the 
second question first: “ Oh, I don’t know,” 
he continued, “ yer see old Pop Bates is so 
deef that he can’t half hear what folks says 
to him, and so I kinder got into the way of 
cornin’ along ’bout train time when the mail 
was due, and then I could help him out. 
Sometimes there is a letter or something 
for some of the folks ’round here and I take 
it to ’em. That saves ’em cornin’ to the post 
office, and they near ’bout always give me a 
96 


STORIES OP HORSES 


hunk of cake or a piece of pie, er suthin’, an’ 
say : ‘ Thanky, Bob.’ That’s about the only 
time I ever get anything sweet for my heart 
er my gizzard; fer old Wheeler — he’s the 
man I live with — aint got nothin’ fer a fel- 
ler but thumps and leavin’s.” 

“ Haven’t you any parents? ” 

“ Nope; don’t even remember them. Ma, 
she died when I was born, and dad didn’t 
live long after her. Folks ’round here says 
he died ’cause ma did. He worked for old 
Wheeler, and I reckon most likely he starved 
ter death. He’d like to starve me if he 
could. But I guess I aint the starvin’ kind. 
I can git along somehow, and folks ’round 
here is pretty good to me.” 

“ What do you do for Mr. Wheeler? 
You can’t be more than twelve years 
old.” 

“ I’ll be twelve next November. What 
don’t I do, you’d better ask. ’Most anything 
a boy twelve years can do an’ a lot some 
97 


STORIES OF HORSES 


fifteen can’t. I milk seven cows twice a 
day ; cut all the wood ; tote water ; take care 
of the stock; run errants; hoe corn, an’ do 
about a hundred things beside; an’ all fer 
my board an’ keep — mostly keep” 

“ Do you go to school? ” 

“ Aint none to go ter. Nearest one’s five 
mile away, an’ old Wheeler don’t keep no 
trotters fer my use.” 

“ Can you read?” 

“ Yes’m, some. There was a lady stoppin’ 
up to Squire Davis’s one summer and she 
learnt me; an’ ever sence I’ve been a-pickin’ 
up some from the newspapers. Squire 
Davis takes a lot of ’em, an’ when he’s done 
with ’em he lets me have ’em.” 

By this time they had reached their des- 
tination and the boy, pointing to a low 
white house which nestled in a garden filled 
with hollyhocks, dahlias, and brilliant 
asters, said : “ There’s Mis’ Parker’s. You 
go on in an’ tell Si, her hired man, ter come 
98 


STORIES OP HORSES 


out an’ get yer bag whilst I stay here along 
with my friends.” 

Without a thought of questioning him 
the woman started for the house, and, turn- 
ing to the child upon the wagon, who thus 
far had scarcely spoken a word, he said: 
“ You’ll soon be all right now. Are yer 
tired? ” 

“ Not very. The ride on the train from 
Boston was awful hot, but this part has 
been splendid. How did you ever get Lady 
to let you hitch her up this way? She loves 
you, doesn’t she, and Sonny does, too; how 
did you make them?” 

“ Guess ’cause we didn’t have nobody else 
to love. Old Wheeler don’t care nothin’ for 
her now she is gettin’ old. He hardly ever 
takes any notice of her. She used to be the 
fastest horse on the Cape, and there aint 
one that’s got better blood in her veins. I 
bring her apples or somethin’ every day, 
and I was the first one Sonny, here, saw 
99 


■ L.of C. » 


STORIES OF HORSES 


after he come into the world. Sonny an’ I 
are great cronies. I’m only waitin’ fer him 
to grow up, an’ then we’re goin’ to run 
away, aren’t we, old feller? ” and he laid his 
arm over the colt’s neck. 

Sonny nestled close up to him, and Lady 
looked benignly upon them both. 

“ Will you come to see me while I am 
here? ” asked the child. 

“ I’ll come when I can get off. Bet I’d 
ketch it now if they knew I was gallavintin’ 
like this. I’ll sneak over when I can. Here 
comes Si.” 

Out bustled Mrs. Parker, followed by her 
sister; both talking at once. Close behind 
them came “ Si.” 

“ My land er Goshen ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Parker, “ did anyone ever hear tell of such 
doin’s? And that blessed lamb dragged up 
to my front door just as if she was a sack er 
flour. How do, Bob ; seems as if this part 
of the world couldn’t get along without you, 
100 


STORIES OF HORSES 


nohow; don’t it? Run Tong ’round to the 
back of the house to the buttry and eat your 
fill ; you certain sure deserve it this time.” 

“ Can’t now ; got to get back with Lady 
or I’ll have Mr. Wheeler after me. Will the 
stuff keep? I’ll come along ’round to-mor- 
row if it will.” 

“ Yes, indeed, and if it don’t there’s 
plenty more that will,” and she nodded her 
head at him reassuringly. 

“ All right, I’ll be on hand. Good-by, 
folks,” and, flopping down on his wagon, he 
called out, “ Right about, Lady,” and the 
wise creature turned around and started 
back toward the station. 

They returned more quickly than they 
had come, for Lady jogged along, with the 
cart, jerking and rattling behind her. They 
soon reached the pasture, and, after placing 
his charges safely within it, he put up the 
bars once more, and then clambered upon 
the topmost one. 


101 


STORIES OF HORSES 


“ Now come along and say 4 good-by/ 
’cause I’ve got ter git ’long back.” 

Lady came up to him and laid her big 
head across his shoulder, and the boy 
reached up and circled her soft, warm neck 
with his arm as he rested his face against 
her mane. 

Little Sonny looked at him a moment as 
though to say, “ Do you want me, too? ” 

“ Yes, come along and say good-by, too,” 
said Bob. Sonny laid his head across Bob’s 
knee and looked up at him with his brown 
eyes full of love for the friend who never 
forgot him, but came to him day after day, 
in sunshine or shower, to bring the dainty 
of which he often deprived himself that his 
four-footed friends might not be disap- 
pointed. 

And as he sits there stroking the colt’s 
silky ears and nestling close to the mother’s 
neck, we must bid him “ good-by,” too, and 
skim forward on the wings of time to a 
102 


STORIES OF HORSES 


period eight years later, when both he and 
Sonny have grown up and Sonny found an 
opportunity to repay him for his years of 
devotion to himself and his mother, Gray 
Lady. 


103 


PART II 


SONNY^S GRATITUDE 

T HE sun beat fiercely down upon the 
Cuban shore, and waves of hot air 
quivered above the sand. A short distance 
off shore the great transports swung quietly 
to their anchors in the sheltered bay, as 
boatload after boatload of troops disem- 
barked and were rowed to the white beach, 
where their comrades were already busy 
getting their arms and the camp parapher- 
nalia up to the camping-ground. 

A cavalry regiment with its horses was 
being sent ashore; and a wretched enough 
time they were having, too; for the trans- 
portation facilities were extremely limited. 
One after another the poor beasts were 
104 


STORIES OF HORSES 


forced upon the gangplank, which was so 
arranged that it slid them off into the water 
to swim for the beach, probably five hundred 
yards distant. 

They were nearly all stout, brave animals, 
and had seen hard service upon the Western 
frontier, but this was an entirely new ex- 
perience, and many were nearly wild with 
terror. As they were forced into the water 
a man in the stern of one of the boats would 
take the halter-strap and guide one swim- 
ming animal to the shore, and the others 
followed as fast as the waves and their own 
strength permitted. 

Our deepest interest is centered on one 
splendid, big, dappled gray which stands at 
the end of the gangplank about to take his 
turn. His beautiful eyes show that he is 
keenly observing all that is happening 
about him. His delicate ears are pricked 
forward, or laid back as though to catch the 
faintest sound, and the wide nostrils quiver 
105 


STORIES OF HORSES 


with excitement as he draws in long breaths 
of the briny air, or gives a snort of protest. 
Beside him, with his arm thrown caress- 
ingly over the beautifully arched neck, 
stands a young soldier, evidently a sergeant. 
He is a handsome fellow, whose bronzed 
skin and muscular form show that he has 
seen service. Unquestionably he and his 
horse understand each other thoroughly, 
for he is talking to the intelligent crea- 
ture, who seems to comprehend him per- 
fectly. 

“ Now, old fellow, don’t you get panicky 
when you’re dipped. Just put your best 
leg forward and pungle straight for that 
shore yonder. Do you hear what I’m say- 
ing? ” and he looked into the horse’s eyes 
as one might look into the eyes of a human 
being. 

The horse gave his head a toss up and 
down, as though he were answering “ yes,” 
and then turned to rub it against the man’s 
106 


STORIES OF HORSES 


shoulder. “ Come along, gray jacket ” 
called the man who stood at the end of the 
plank, “ it’s your turn now,” and he reached 
for the halter-strap. The horse walked to 
the end of the plank, planted his dainty feet 
upon it, and would not budge another inch. 
The man coaxed and tugged, but all to no 
purpose. At last, losing patience, he cried : 
“ Well, you’re a dandy, aint you, now? I’ll 
get something that ’ll give you your 
marchin’ orders.” He reached for a heavy 
balestick which was lying on the deck, but 
before he could administer the blow the 
stick was wrenched from his hand and flung 
far out into the blue water. 

The man looked in utter amazement to 
encounter a pair of gray eyes that fairly 
snapped fire at him : “ Did you think I was 
going to let you knock him with that stick? 
Not much. Come on, old man, you’ll follow 
me, I know,” said the sergeant, and, going 
to the side of the ship, he caught hold of a 
107 


STORIES OF HORSES 


rope which dangled from above and swung 
himself over the side, to drop into one of the 
boats below. 

As he disappeared the horse gave a loud 
neigh, as though to call him back. “ Come, 
Sonny, come on, old fellow,” called his 
master; and as though the ship no longer 
held anything worth remaining on board 
for, the beautiful creature gave another 
loud whinny and plunged into the water. 

With powerful strokes he swam straight 
for the beloved object in the boat, which 
was being pulled slowly toward the shore. 
The sergeant, who was now seated in the 
stern of the boat, reached out, and, taking 
hold of the leader which had been loosely 
knotted about the horse’s neck, gently towed 
the swimming animal, while talking to him 
encouragingly. And, as though he gained 
strength and courage from the beloved 
voice, the horse grew less and less nervous 
and settled down to the long, steady strokes 
108 


STORIES OF HORSES 


which carried him swiftly, toward the shore. 
They were within a hundred yards of it 
when he began to plunge and hold back. 

“ Come on, Sonny; come on; what’s up? ” 
asked his master. 

But the horse was unable to respond. 

“ By Jove! he’s stuck in the seaweed; 
he’ll be a goner, sure as guns; that stuff has 
done up more ’n one of ’em already,” cried 
one of the men. 

“ He won’t be a i goner ’ if I can help it! ” 
exclaimed the sergeant, and in another in- 
stant he had cast hat, coat, and arms into 
the boat and plunged into the water. 

“ Steady, Sonny ; steady, old boy. I’ll 
have you free in a minute,” he called to the 
struggling horse. At the sound of his voice 
the wild plunges ceased and he looked 
pathetically at his master with his great, 
eloquent eyes. 

Swimming to the horse’s side, the man 
rested one hand upon the broad back, and 
109 


STORIES OF HORSES 


reached down into the water; but he could 
not reach low enough to disentangle the sea- 
weed from the hind feet, “ Hold on a min- 
ute, boys,” he called to the men in the boat. 
“ Steady now,” and with a mighty dive he 
disappeared beneath the waves. “ He’ll be 
kicked to flinders,” shouted one of the sol- 
diers. “ Well, fet him, if he’s fool enough 
to make such a fuss over a horse. I’d see 
every one of them soaking on the coral reef 
before I’d risk my neck for ’em.” “ Reckon 

you would, Bill ; and the whole boatload of 
us into the bargain,” was the scornful reply 
of one of his comrades ; “ but that younker’s 
made of different stuff.” 

By this time the sergeant had come sput- 
tering to the surface, and calling out: “ All 
right; pull ahead,” he rested one dripping 
arm across the horse’s withers, and began 
to swim beside him. 

“ Come on into the boat,” called one of 
the men. 


no 


STORIES OF HORSES 


“ Go ahead ; Fm all right,” was the reply, 
and a moment later they had reached the 
shore and were scrambling up the beach. 

“ You are a durned fool to get a ducking 
for that brute,” exclaimed the man who had 
before spoken disparagingly of the ser- 
geant’s devotion to his horse. 

“ Think so? ” was the cool reply. “ Well, 
when you’ve had a friend as long as I’ve 
had him for one, whether that friend travels 
on four feet or two, you’d better stick to 
him, if he proves as true to you as this one 
has to me. We’ve traveled together nine 
years now, and in all that time we’ve never 
been apart a day, and he’s helped me out 
of many a bad fix, I can tell you.” 

“ He must be nigh about twenty year old, 
aint he? ” asked the man with a laugh. 

“ He is old enough to know a chump when 
he sees one, and to stick to a friend when 
he’s got one; and that’s more than some 
other live critters can do ” ; and the ser- 
111 


STORIES OP HORSES 

geant walked off up the beach to join his 
troop. 

As they walked along, the man who had 
taken his part in the boat overtook him, 
and asked : “ How long have you had that 
horse, anyhow, sergeant? ” 

“ Well,” he replied, with a queer sort of 
smile, “ I’ve sort of looked upon him as 
mine ever since he drew his first breath, for 
his mother was the only friend I ever had. 
But I can’t say as he’s been my legal prop- 
erty more than three years.” 

“ I thought you said you’d had him nine 
years? He doesn’t look more than nine 
now.” 

“ He was nine ears old the sixth of last 
April, and, as I said before, we haven’t been 
apart a day. I looked after him till he was 
four years old, and after that he took care 
of me. Our part of the world got too hot 
for us about that time, and one dark night 
we put out; didn’t we, Sonny? ” turning to 
112 


STORIES OP HORSES 


stroke the great neck which was rapidly 
drying in the tropical sun. Sonny an- 
swered with a soft whinny and poked his 
nose against the man’s face. 

His interrogator looked at him question- 
ingly, and the sergeant, in whom we can no 
longer fail to recognize our friend, Bob 
Slocum, said : “ I was raised down on Cape 
Cod, and by the meanest old duck that ever 
gave a boy cuffs for his breakfast, knocks 
for dinner, and a kick for his supper. Don’t 
remember my parents. Sonny here was the 
colt of one of his mares; and a beauty she 
was, too. But when she got. too old to 
work he would have let her starve if Squire 
Davis hadn’t bought her. The squire took 
pity on her and let her stay in his barn and 
took care of her .till she died. 

“ When Sonny was two years old Wheeler 
undertook to break him ; but he came 
nearer killing him instead, for Sonny was 
nervous and high-spirited, and old Wheeler 
113 


STORIES OF HORSES 


had a temper like a very devil. It makes 
my blood boil to think of the way he 
handled that colt ; I wonder he didn’t ruin 
him, and I believe he would have, if it 
hadn’t been for me. But after they’d had 
one of their shindies and Sonny was all 
done up, and old Wheeler was madder than 
a hornet and had gone up to the house 
to take out his spunk on his wife, I’d sneak 
into the pasture, and Sonny would just put 
for me. He seemed to try to tell me his 
troubles, and I’d comfort and pet him till 
he’d get quieted down a bit. I was only 
fourteen years old then, and he and I stood 
it a year longer, and then one dark night 
we took French leave and lit out. I don’t 
know how we ever escaped being caught, or 
kept from starving, but we did both. 

“ Sonny lived on grass and I on what I 
could beg. I knew the country for miles 
around, and I managed to keep well hidden 
during the daytime. We came mighty 
114 


STORIES OP HORSES 


near being caught lots of times, and had no 
end of close shaves, I can tell you. But in 
time I managed to get into New York State, 
and then we got on pretty well. I could do 
anything with Sonny, and at last we struck 
the towpaths. I gave the towmen lifts for 
my board and a feed for Sonny, and they 
didn't bother to ask where we had come 
from or where we were going, so long as we 
could make ourselves useful. 

“ By-and-by we found ourselves out in 
western New York, and it wasn’t much 
further to Ohio ; so on we went till the next 
thing we knew we were clear out in Colo- 
rado. Then I got a notion I’d like to go 
soldiering, and Sonny and I enlisted with 
the regulars. We’ve been with them ever 
since. I was only fifteen, but everyone 
thought I was seventeen, for I was nearly 
as tall as I am now, and had been obliged 
to shift for myself so long that there wasn’t 
much of the boy left in me, I can tell you. 

115 


STORIES OF HORSES 


Sonny had got to be a beauty, and I could 
have sold him a dozen times over, but, you 
see, he wasn’t mine to sell, even if I’d 
wanted to, which I didn’t. 

“ In two years more I’d managed to 
scratch together a couple of hundred dollars 
somehow, and then I went to the colonel 
and up and told him the whole story, and 
asked him to send the money to old Wheeler 
for me. I’d heard the old man say a dozen 
times that he would sell Sonny for that sum 
rather than take the risk of being killed 
while breaking him. And he hadn’t broken 
him, either; I’d done it. That was three 
years ago. The money went all right and 
I’ve got the receipt all safe. Old Wheeler’s 
satisfied, and so am I. I’ve been with the 
regiment ever since. We’ve had some 
pretty hot times with the Ingins out there ; 
you know that as well as I do, but I’ve a 
notion we’re in for a hotter one right here 
than we’ve seen yet. Sonny has helped me 
116 


STORIES OF HORSES 

out of many a tight place, and we’ve seen 
some mighty tough times together, but I 
could count on him every time, and I be- 
lieve he’d lay down his life for me in a 
minute. I expect he will save it for me 
yet. I’d have been a fine one to sit in that 
boat and watch him go to the bottom, 
wouldn’t I? ” 

Bob little dreamed how soon Sonny would 
repay his devotion. 

Who would wish to picture the horrors 
of a battlefield, with its scream of shot, its 
burst of shell, and the cries of the wounded? 
Certainly not I, but I cannot complete my 
story of Sonny without touching the horri- 
ble scene. 

A charge had been made and many a 
riderless horse was rushing aimlessly 
about; for when the trusting creatures no 
longer felt the guiding hand nor heard the 
encouraging voice of their masters, chaos 
seemed indeed to have come again. No one 
117 


STORIES OP HORSES 


would have recognized in the terrified ani- 
mals the well-trained creatures which had 
gathered for the charge. 

Among them was Sonny, rushing he knew 
not whither. Poor Sonny! No longer 
clean and shining, but splashed with mud, 
blackened with powder, and bleeding from 
a ghastly wound in his shoulder. From 
some instinct of self-preservation the horses 
ran to the rear, and he ran with them. But 
he had not gone far when he was captured 
by a trooper whose horse had been shot 
under him, and a moment later he was dash- 
ing up the hill and into the thickest of the 
• fight. 

Wounds were unnoticed and terror dis- 
regarded ; no one had time to think of a 
horse when human beings were struggling 
to destroy each other in order to settle a 
disputed question and free a down-trodden 
race. 

Poor Sonny! No one could look into the 
118 


STORIES OF HORSES 


horse’s mind and there see the anguish he 
was suffering for the loss of the master 
whom he had loved and served so faithfully 
for nine years, and whom he would will- 
ingly have followed to his death, if neces- 
sary. Whatever trials he had before en- 
countered; whatever suffering he had been 
compelled to endure, his trusted master had 
been there to help him bear them. Now in 
the midst of battle he was as much alone 
as though he had been abandoned in a 
wilderness. 

Night fell and the carnage ended. Long 
trains of ambulances were being driven to 
the rear ; wounded men were dragging 
themselves along the tracks; others were 
being helped over the rough road by com- 
rades, or were borne on rudely constructed 
stretchers to the field hospital, where Red 
Cross nurses and surgeons were doing their 
utmost to relieve the suffering. 

In the field behind them lay those who 
119 


STORIES OF HORSES 

needed neither the surgeon’s skill nor the 
nurse’s care. 

“ Here, Jim, give me a lift, will you? ” 
said a soldier at the edge of the field, as he 
was striving to carry a badly wounded com- 
rade to the rear. 

The man addressed was limping along 
and leading a horse which limped even 
worse than he himself did. 

The first speaker added quickly : “ Where 
did you get that horse? If he aint Slocum’s 
‘ Sonny ’ I’ll miss my guess.” 

“ Who’s Slocum? I caught the horse 
running wild on the field. He was wounded 
then, but I had to get to the front. Here, 
let’s get him up on the horse,” he said, 
speaking of the wounded man. 

Together they managed to place him upon 
the horse’s back and started on. They had 
not gone five hundred yards when Sonny 
stopped short, and, throwing up his head, 
gave a loud neigh. 


120 


STORIES OP HORSES 


“What’s up, old man?” asked the man 
who was leading him. 

“ He acts as though he smelt something,” 
said the other. 

“ Here, come on ; we haven’t got time for 
you to smell out your fodder to-night,” and 
he started on. 

Sonny w^ent a few steps, stopped again, 
and tried to turn back; but the man now 
grew impatient, and, giving him a sounding 
thwack upon his flank, went on down the 
hill. 

Again and again he held back and strove 
to get away from them. 

Reaching camp they lifted the uncon- 
scious burden from Sonny’s back and to- 
gether bore it into one of the tents. 

This was Sonny’s chance, and he darted 
away as he used to do when he heard Bob’s 
whistle. 

It was a rough road, little better than a 
trail. But Sonny heeded naught. One 
121 


STORIES OF HORSES 


thought filled his mind; one desire dwelt in 
his heart. 

He soon reached the spot where he had 
first halted, and, plunging into the dense 
jungle growth, forced his way through the 
tangle of grass and vines. On and on he 
went till he came to a spot far remote from 
the line of battle and the path taken by 
those returning with the wounded. A mo- 
ment later he was whinnying over a figure 
which lay stretched upon the ground. 
Nothing could have been more pronounced 
than his delight at finding the object of his 
search. But his delight was short-lived, for 
there was no reply to his repeated neighs 
and soft whinnies. He put his muzzle 
down to the beloved face and pushed it 
against the quiet hands, but won no 
response. Again and again he tried to 
rouse the quiet figure. Again and again 
did he strive to win some recognition. It 
was all in vain, and at last, when all else 
122 


STORIES OP HORSES 


failed, he tried to pick up his precious 
charge with his teeth. But he could find 
no place where he dared lay hold, for he 
was far too wise to grasp anything but the 
clothing. And now Sonny was in dire 
straits, indeed, for he was unable to move 
his master and would not leave him. 

Night fell, and the dense darkness of the 
tropics enveloped them. Ere long rain 
began to fall in torrents, but Sonny did not 
quit his post. It may have been the rain, 
or it may have been dear Mother Nature’s 
healing touch, but whatever the cause was, 
at about midnight the quiet figure moaned 
slightly and stirred. 

Sonny instantly began to lick the white 
face ; the eyes opened, and Bob looked wildly 
around. “ Sonny,” he murmured. And 
Sonny neighed loudly. That was all, but 
the horse was satisfied. All the rest of the 
night he stood guard ; sometimes licking the 
hands ; sometimes whinnying softly. 

123 


STORIES OF HORSES 


Morning came with the suddenness of the 
tropical daybreak, the sun seeming to 
spring straight up out of the sea, and with 
the morning poor Bob’s senses returned. 
He looked at Sonny and said : “ Dear old 
fellow,” and tried to rise. But Bob was 
not likely to rise for some time. “ How did 
you find me? ” he asked, as though the horse 
could answer him. “ I wonder how I came 
here, anyway? The last thing I remember 
was trying to crawl out of the reek and roar 
up yonder.” Once more he tried to raise 
himself up, but the exertion was too much 
for him, and with a pitiful moan he fell 
back unconscious. 

Now was Sonny indeed wretched! He 
stood the very picture of misery. But 
finally he seemed to decide upon a line of 
action, and with a parting caress, he started 
out of the steaming jungle. Once free of 
it, he encountered human beings ; some 
wounded, some searching for the wounded ; 

124 


STORIES OF HORSES 


and to these last he seemed to turn instinc- 
tively. He whinnied, and they turned in 
surprise to see a horse emerging from a spot 
where no horse was supposed to be. 

“ Look at that horse ! ” exclaimed one of 
them. “ Go catch him, Sam.” 

Sam started forward, but Sonny had no 
notion of being caught again, and with a 
wild plunge he dashed back into the 
jungle. 

“ What in thunder is taking you in there, 
you fool beast? ” the man called after him. 
“ I wonder if there can be anybody in that 
stifle,” he added. “ Hi, Jo, come on ; there’s 
something up; I believe that horse’s rider 
is in there.” 

“ Nonsense! How could he get into such 
a place? I’m not going in.” 

“ Well, there’s something there, and I’m 
going to find out what it is, whether you 
come in or not ! ” and he started to follow 
Sonny. 


125 


STORIES OF HORSES 

“ Then I’ll come, too ; ” and both men 
started. 

Sonny kept well ahead of them, but they 
followed, and in a moment later they came 
upon Bob. 

“ Well, I’ll be shot ! ” exclaimed the 
second man. “ If that don’t go clear ahead 
of anything; that beast has been doing 
guard duty all night, as sure as guns.” 

“ I knew there was something here,” said 
the first speaker. “ I’ve seen too much of 
horses out on the plains not to understand 
some of their ways.” 

Tenderly they lifted the unconscious 
figure and bore it back to the camp. No 
need to lead Sonny now; he would not let 
the dear master out of his sight, and every 
few steps he reached out his head to sniff 
at him. Bob was carried into a tent, and all 
that was possible to be done for him was 
done ; but it was a long time before he could 
get about again, and meantime the story of 
126 


STORIES OP HORSES 


Sonny’s devotion spread throughout the 
camp, and there was not a man in the regi- 
ment who was not willing to give a helping 
hand when the wounded shoulder needed 
dressing. 

As soon as he was able, Bob’s pet was 
brought to him, and Sonny’s joy was 
pathetic. No words were needed to show 
it more plainly. As soon as he could be 
moved Bob was taken to Montauk, and 
Sonny went with him. 

There we must leave them, only adding 
that Bob recovered completely, and when he 
was able once more to sit upon Sonny’s 
back and join his comrades in their drill, 
his regiment held no more popular man or 
horse. 

Bob was promoted for bravery ; and when 
the men — not content that he alone should 
have the honors — presented a medal to 
Sonny, upon which was engraved the figure 
of a horse standing beside his wounded 
127 


STORIES OP HORSES 


master, Bob thought more of Sonny’s glory 
than of his own. 

But Bob had served his time at soldiering, 
and not long after received his honorable 
discharge. He returned to the West, for 
•the free life out there suited him, estab- 
lished himself upon a ranch, and has now 
settled down to business pursuits with 
Sonny as first superintendent, chief herder, 
and joint owner, for in Bob’s estimation 
nothing is too good for Sonny. 


128 


HOW NED TOODLES 
WENT TO 
COOKING SCHOOL 


4 



HOW NED TOODLES 
WENT TO 
COOKING SCHOOL 


O, you must not touch that! No, nor 
' that either. Now mind what I’m 
saying, and oh, do keep away from that 
sugar-box! Ned Toodles, how can you act 
so? Fll never get this dinner ready if you 
don’t keep out of my way, and stop trying 
to steal things. I’m ashamed of you ! ” and 
Denise caught up her rolling pin, which lay 
upon the small pastry board, and drove off 
the little scamp who was causing all her 
troubles. And I am sure you will never 
guess what that little scamp was, so I will 
tell you that it was a small Welsh pony. 

You will wonder what a pony was doing 
131 


STORIES OF HORSES 


in a kitchen, so I will tell you that this was 
a most unusual kitchen. It was a tiny 
one, in the playhouse which this little giiTs 
father had had built for her in the pretty 
grounds of her home, and was fitted up in 
the most perfect manner with everything 
a real kitchen ever has. The house had a 
dining-room too, and upstairs a bedroom 
and sitting room for the dollies. 

That was one half of it; the other was 
the dearest little stable in the world, and 
in it lived Ned Toodles, her pony; Tan, her 
big goat, and Sailor, her Newfoundland 
dog. 

There, too, were kept Ned’s and Tan’s 
carriages, harness, etc. 

A door led into it from the playhouse, and 
her pets could come visiting whenever they 
wished, for they were never tied up, and 
were too wise to run off. 

Denise’s mamma had taught her how to 
cook many things and she spent hours mak- 
132 


STORIES OF HORSES 

ing all sorts of dainties, and when they were 
made she would set her table and Ned, Tan, 
Sailor, and Beauty Buttons, the black-and- 
tan, would all take their places, standing 
up, and have a grand feast. 

They dearly loved to come into the 
kitchen while she cooked, and she had some 
lively times trying to keep them out of mis- 
chief. 

The morning of which I am telling she 
was preparing a grand luncheon, and the 
pets had all been invited, but were not to 
come till luncheon was served. They kept 
sniffing at the closed door, however, and 
doing all they could to push it open, for 
they smelt the apple pies which were bak- 
ing, and their mouths fairly watered. 

Denise, enveloped in a gingham apron, 
with a cooking cap set rakishly upon her 
curly pate, was flying around, trying to get 
all ready before her guests arrived. She 
had just set her pies to cool, and was mak- 
133 


STORIES OF HORSES 


ing griddle cakes, of which one must have 
eaten about a hundred before being satis- 
fied, to judge by their size, when door lead- 
ing out of the kitchen was pushed open and 
in walked Ned. He had found a way. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” she cried, “ now you will 
lead me a life of it till you get your 
luncheon, won’t you?” 

True enough. To steal an apple from the 
basket beside the table was only a second’s 
work, and that gone he turned his attention 
to the pies. Denise flew after him and res- 
cued first the pies and then the little plate 
of toast, and at last caught up her rolling- 
pin and drove him off with that. 

He gave a defiant bounce and ran into the 
dining room. 

“ Well, do go in there ! ” she cried ; “ there 
isn’t a single thing on the table to eat yet, 
unless you eat the plates, and I don’t be- 
lieve even you will want those,” and she put 
the sugar-box and everything else out of 
134 


STORIES OP HORSES 


sight. Then, placing her viands upon her 
tiny tray, she carried them into the dining 
room, meanwhile keeping one eye on Ned. 

But more than one eye was required to 
watch that little black imp, as Denise 
soon found, for he bobbed about like a mon- 
key, and behaved in altogether a disgraceful 
manner for an invited guest. At last she 
became indignant and said : 

“ I should think you’d be ashamed of 
yourself to act so ! You’ve just got to wait 
till it is served, and then you may all come, 

and oh, dear! here they all come this 

minute, and it’s all because you would come 
before the time you were told to,” and the 
distracted little hostess looked nearly des- 
perate as three more of her four-footed 
guests appeared before the hours named in 
their invitations. 

“ Sailor, charge ! ” “ Beauty, lie down at 
once ! ” and “ Tan, come here ! ” were the 
orders quickly issued, “ and you,” turning 
135 


STORIES OF HORSES 


to Ned, with a look calculated to strike ter- 
ror to his heart, “ go straight back to the 
kitchen! You are not fit to come to the 
table, and there isn’t a single thing left in 
there for you to eat.” 

But alas ! she had entirely forgotten the 
Saratoga potatoes, which were still merrily 
sizzling in the tiny frying-pan. 

With a final defiant jump Ned skipped 
through the door, and, literally “ following 
his nose,” made straight for the little stove. 

To make a dive for the potatoes, whose 
tempting odor had proved too much for 
him, was only a second’s work, and then 
came the climax. 

A squeal, a wild leap, and the hot morsel 
was dropped as the scamp flew across the 
kitchen and out of the door, upsetting the 
cooking-table and everything else in his 
way, to rush across the lawn as though 
pursued by a wild beast. 

With Tan and the dogs close upon her 
136 


STORIES OF HORSES 

heels, Denise rushed into the kitchen and 
beheld the wreck. 

One glance at the frying-pan, now calmly 
reposing in the middle of the floor, ex- 
plained all. 

And I wish to add that ever after Ned 
stood in very wholesome awe of that little 
stove, and would walk a long way around 
the kitchen in order to avoid going near it. 


137 



OLD NICK’S CHRISTMAS 




OLD NICK S CHRISTMAS 


CHAPTER I 


“where is old nick?” 



OOD-BY ! ” “ Good-by ! ” “ Hope 


you’ll have a good time!” “Merry 
Christmas beforehand!” “Happy New 
Year, too ! ” “ Hope youTl get loads of 

pretty things, and no end of goodies which 
will bear transportation ! ” cried a dozen or 
more girls as they bade good-by to one of 
their schoolmates just leaving for her 
Christmas holidays. 

Isabel Townsend was truly popular, not 
only with her schoolmates, but with 
teachers also. A bright, happy girl who 
went through life with a laugh and a song, 


141 


STORIES OF HORSES 


and yet had a strong, noble character, quick 
to detect sham of any sort, and cordially 
detest it. She had a long journey before 
her, and was starting off earlier than the 
other girls ; hence her “ send-off.” 

Forty-eight hours later the train deposited 
her at a small station, about fifteen miles 
from the city of New York, where her father 
awaited her. 

He was a tall, handsome man, who had 
once enjoyed an independent income, but 
Wall Street had proved to him, as to many 
another, anything but “a land of promise.” 
Still, enough had been saved from the wreck 
to enable him to live upon the farm which 
had been his wife’s dower, and even to enjoy 
some luxuries; but he was a disappointed 
man, and seemed to have left his faith in 
his fellow-men behind him in the New York 
Stock Exchange. He rarely left his farm, 
where he found occupation in his books and 
in his live stock, in which he took just pride. 

142 


STORIES OF HORSES 

It was a pretty place, nestling among the 
Jersey hills, and as quiet and secluded as 
though hundreds of miles from the great 
city pulsating with life and daily drawing 
innumerable human beings into the mael- 
strom where hopes and schemes were lost 
forever. 

“ Well, daughter, how are you? Glad to 
see you home again,” was Mr. Townsend’s 
greeting, as he helped Isabel into the cut- 
ter and tucked the robes carefully about 
her. 

“ It’s awfully nice to be home, too; and 
holv is mamma? ” she asked, as she nestled 
close to his side when he had taken his seat 
beside her. 

“ Mamma is well and very anxious to 
have you home. I’m glad to see you looking 
so well, and that you have decided, after all, 
to wear your Christmas present before- 
hand,” he said, as a faint, smile overspread 
his fine face, and he picked up one of the 
143 


STORIES OP HORSES 

tails of the handsome fur collar Isabel 
wore. 

“ Yes, I just couldn’t wait for the day to 
come. How good you were to send me such 
a beauty, and to make it so easy for me to 
do exactly what I was dying to do all the 
time, by telling me to wear the furs right 
off and not to wait for Christmas Day.” 
While she spoke she stroked her pretty col- 
lar and muff, and regarded them with very 
genuine pride. 

“ Why did you get such expensive ones, 
daddy? ” she continued. “ I should have 
been just as pleased with a simpler style,” 
and she looked up with her bonny face alive 
with happiness. 

“ I’ve only one daughter,” was the brief 
response. 

“ Which horse is this, papa? I think I’ve 
never seen him before ; have I ? ” 

“ I think not. He is one of Nancy’s 
colts, and was broken only this fall. He is 
144 


STORIES OP HORSES 


none too reliable yet; but I use him a 
great deal and have great expectations of 
him.” 

As though to give Mr. Townsend a hint 
of what his expectations might realize, the 
frisky beast at that moment elected to put 
the laws of gravity to a crucial test. With 
one bound he leaped into the air, struck out 
wildly, plunged forward, and took about 
three minutes to recover his equilibrium, 
evidently convinced that, so far as his- 
tory has recorded, Pegasus was not the 
only horse capable of flying through 
space. 

“ What a crazy thing he is ! ” exclaimed 
Isabel. “ Why didn’t you bring Old Nick? 
Dear old fellow ! How I want to see him ! 
Is he all right? ” 

“ I think so, I think so,” said her father 
hurriedly. Then Mr. Townsend became 
much occupied with the colt, and a few mo- 
ments later home was reached, where, amid 
145 


STORIES OF HORSES 

warm greetings, Old Nick was, for a time, 
forgotten. 

A few hours later Isabel came in from the 
stables, where she had been on a tour of in- 
spection, with blank dismay pictured upon 
her face. 

“ Daddy,” she cried, bursting into the 
room, “ where is Old Nick? The men say 
that he is sold, but I won’t believe them. 
He isn’t, is he? ” and her voice was half- 
choked in sobs. 

Mr. Townsend looked up from his desk, 
and a peculiar expression crept into his 
face — an expression partly of defiance, 
partly of self-assertion, partly of shame — 
but he made no answer. Isabel came toward 
him as one who doubted her senses, and lay- 
ing a hand on each of his shoulders peered 
into his face, with doubt and astonishment 
on her own. 

“ Papa, of course you wouldn’t sell Old 
Nick! Why, he has been mine as long 
146 


STORIES OP HORSES 

as I can remember, and next to you and 
mamma, I love him better than anything 
in the world. Where is he? Please tell 
me.” 

“ Isabel, listen to me. You are no longer 
a child. You are nearly seventeen years old, 
and you ought to be capable of looking upon 
things from a practical standpoint. Yes, 
Nick is sold. I had an excellent offer from 
a man who was going through the country 
about six weeks ago, buying up horses. Nick 
is seventeen years old if he is a day, and 
such a chance could never be expected 
again. Mamma wanted to send you a set of 
furs for Christinas, and the means to pur- 
chase them had literally walked to our door. 
The seventy- five dollars paid for Nick 
bought them, and you, certainly, should be 
the last to complain.” 

Mr. Townsend picked up his pen as 
though the matter were dismissed forever. 
But he little knows his daughter. Her hands 
147 


STORIES OF HORSES 


fell from his shoulders and she slowly 
backed away from him, while into her 
big gray eyes came a look which 
told of a resolve born of an outraged 
spirit. 


148 


CHAPTER II 


“ I WANT TO BUY OLD NICK.” 

I F Henry Townsend had expected his 
daughter “ to make a fuss,” he was more 
than agreeably disappointed. She said not 
one word, but turned and left the room. 

Going straight to her own sanctum, she 
took the set of beautiful furs which poor 
Old Nick’s money had bought, put them 
carefully into her drawer, and locked it. 
Then, placing the key in her pocket, she 
threw a shawl about her and started for the 
stable, where Hiram Bents, the foreman, 
was holding a monologue on the subject of 
“ durned fool men who would sell their next 
o’ kin, if they could get enough cash for ’em, 
•never mind if they bruck the purtiest leetle 
heart that went a pit-a-pat ! ” 

149 


STORIES OP HORSES 


“ Hiram, did you see Nick sold? ” 

“ I reckon I did, missie.” 

“ Who bought him? ” 

“ An old duffer what was goin’ about 
tryin’ to git a three-hundred-dollar critter 
fer one hundred.” 

“ Where did he take Nick? ” 

“ Down ter the city ter some horse ex- 
change, where IT1 bet a fiver he sold him fer 
twict what he give fer him.” 

“ Do you know the man’s name? ” 

“ Guess I kin git it. He left his cyard fer 
the boss, and said he’d call round agin when 
he had anythin’ likely he wanted fer ter 
< sell,” and Hiram gave an indignant snort, 
as he took a card from a shelf above his 
head. 

“ Here yer be, missie.” 

Isabel took the card and read : 

“ Jacob Vedder, Dealer in Horses. East 
Twenty-fifth Street, New York.” 

“ Thanks, Hiram. I’ll keep this, please.” 

150 


STORIES OF HORSES 


“ Ye’re welcome. I don’t want ter tech 
the thing; seems like it’s a scrap o’ Old 
Nick’s hide.” 

Isabel went back to her room, and, lock- 
ing the door, opened her trunk. Down in 
the bottom was a jewel box, from which she 
took a small leather case containing a ring 
of curious design. The ring itself was of 
dull gold, holding an uncut stone. It had 
been sent to her when she was a mere child 
by an uncle in India. Excepting to men- 
tion that the stone was valuable, he had 
said but little about it, and she had kept it 
more as a curiosity than for any supposed 
intrinsic value. 

It was still three days to Christmas 
and bitter cold. Weather-wise folk pre- 
dicted a snowstorm within forty-eight 
hours. 

“ Mamma, dear, can you spare me to-mor- 
row? I want to go to the city for the day,” 
said Isabel, as she came into the pleasant 
151 


STORIES OF HORSES 


sitting room and placed her arm caressingly 
about her mother’s shoulders. 

“ Spare you, sweetheart? I’ll try. What 
is the demand — Christmas shopping? ” 
asked her mother, drawing Isabel’s hand to 
her lips and kissing it softly. 

“ Oh, lots of things ! May I go? ” 

“ Certainly, dear.” 

It was a determined young spirit which 
stepped into the big city next morning and, 
making her way to one of the large jewelry 
stores uptown, asked to see the proprietor. 
Ushered into his private office, she lost not 
a moment in coming straight to the point, 
and said to him : 

“ I have something I wish to sell.” 

“ Yes? May I inquire what it is? ” 

“ It is a ring.” 

'A smile crept into the jeweler’s eyes. 

“ Not a rarity; do you think so? ” 

“ That I do not know, and I wish you to 
decide. I have been told that it is very val- 
152 


STORIES OF HORSES 

uable. It was sent to me from India by my 
uncle.” 

“ Have you shown it to anyone else? ” 

“ No ; but I am very anxious to sell it. 
Will you please tell me what you will give 
me for it? ” 

The proprietor looked not a little sur- 
prised. 

u We should have to consider it, my dear 
young lady, and within a reasonable time 
give our decision.” 

“ But I can’t wait. I must sell it to- 
day — right off,” said the girl impul- 
sively. 

“ Such a thing would be unheard of. But 
I will examine it.” 

“ But why can’t you decide right now? 
It wouldn’t take you very long, I’m sure, 
and it’s so important ! ” 

“ The Christmas shopping, you mean?” 
for there were girls in his own family, and 
he knew the demands of Christmas. 


153 


STORIES OP HORSES 


“ Christmas shopping ! ” she exclaimed 
with fine scorn. “ Do you suppose I am try- 
ing to get money for Christmas shopping? 
I want to buy Old Nick.” 

“ Old Nick ! ” he repeated in amazement. 
“ You’re the first person I’ve ever met who 
thought seriously of buying his Satanic 
Majesty and set about obtaining money to 
do it.” 

“ Oh, dear me ! Please be serious, for 
really it is all too dreadful to laugh about,” 
and tears came into the pretty gray 
eyes. 

“ My dear young lady,” said the jeweler 
kindly, for he saw how deeply in earnest she 
was, and he was touched by the pathetic 
tone in the girlish voice, “ I beg your par- 
don for smiling, and will be glad to learn 
the circumstances, if you are willing to tell 
them.” 

Although nearly seventeen, Isabel was 
still in many respects a child, and in a mo- 
154 


STORIES OF HORSES 


ment was pouring out the story of her love 
for Old Nick, and her determination to buy 
him back. It was all told very simply, yet 
with a child’s dramatic touch, and her list- 
ener quickly detected her wish to shield her 
father from censure, even though he justly 
deserved it. When she had finished, he 
looked into the flushed face and shining 
eyes, as she asked : 

“ Can you wait an hour or so? I am in 
need of a certain stone, and it is just pos- 
sible that the one you have may fill the 
want. You say it is a ruby? ” 

“ Yes, it is a ruby,” replied Isabel, as she 
took the ring from her purse and handed it 
to him. “ I will wait as long as you wish,” 
and she stepped into the outer shop. 

In a little more than an hour she was 
called into the private office again. With 
a beating heart she entered. The jeweler 
rose from his chair as he saw her. 

“ Well, have you come to learn Old Nick’s 
155 


STORIES OP HORSES 


fate? ” he asked kindly. “ I am happy to 
say that you have solved half the problem, 
anyway, for the stone is very beautiful, and 
I am willing to give you two hundred dol- 
lars for it. Do you accept my terms? ” 

“ Two hundred dollars! Why, Old Nick 
was sold for less than one hundred. But 
one would buy him back; don’t you think 
so?” 

It is to the man’s credit that he sup- 
pressed a smile as he answered very seri- 
ously : 

“ Ah, but the dealer will never be willing 
to sell him without making a good profit. 
You’d better take the two hundred ; the ring 
is fully worth it.” 

“ Well, perhaps I would better,” she said 
simply, “ I should be sorry not to have 
enough,” and she looked up into the big 
man’s face as confidingly as though she 
were seven instead of seventeen. 

“ I’m sure you would be; so take this and 
156 


STORIES OF HORSES 

be careful of it. It is a good deal of money 
to look after.” 

“ Fll be very careful, and I am so much 
obliged to you.” Her small, gloved hand 
was impulsively offered. 

“ Good-by, little lady, and accept my best 
wishes for your success.” 


157 


CHAPTER III 


“ POOR OLD NICK ! ” 

I T was a short walk from the jeweler’s 
to the address given upon the horse- 
dealer’s card, and with heart beating high 
with hope Isabel quickly made her way 
there. 

But when the dealer had bought Nick he 
had known what he was about. Very little 
“ doctoring ” was required to bring the still 
handsome old horse up to “ market shape ” 
and palm him off for a much younger ani- 
mal than he was. So it was no wonder that 
ere a week had passed dear Old Nick, who 
had never known a hard day’s work in all 
his happy life, and whose big, arching neck 
had never drawn anything heavier than a 
surrey, should find it burdened with a 
158 


STORIES OP HORSES 


heavy, ill-fitting collar, and himself har- 
nessed to a city express wagon, while the 
dealer patted his pocket, congratulating 
himself that in a few days he had been able 
to make a profit of fifty dollars. Accus- 
tomed all his life to kind treatment and the 
best of care, Nick could not comprehend 
anything different ; and the look of surprise 
which came into the big, beautiful eyes 
when his funny little kittenish overtures to 
play or to be petted were met with harsh 
words or a blow was truly a revelation. 
When Isabel started upon her quest, he had 
been hard at work for over a month, and it 
had told upon the old horse. 

Under ordinary conditions a local city 
express usually keeps its horses busy, but 
when the Christmas rush begins it means 
early and late hours for horse and driver, 
meals snatched when and where they can 
be, and rushing to and fro in storm and 
shine. 


159 


STORIES OF HORSES 


It is really no wonder that the men be- 
come worn out and impatient, and too often 
the poor horses must suffer in consequence. 

From the dealer, a good-natured German, 
Isabel learned who had become Nick’s 
owner and that his office was in Forty- 
second Street, so off she started once more. 
The day was growing bitter cold, and the 
light snowfall during the previous night 
had frozen upon the streets and walks, mak- 
ing it exceedingly uncomfortable for pedes- 
trians, whether they traveled upon two feet 
or four. The sun shone brightly, however, 
and the spirit of Christmas-tide seemed to 
be abroad; for as the people slipped and 
slid along they laughed at one another’s 
mishaps. 

But for the poor horses it was a different 
matter. Those sharp-shod managed well 
enough, but those with smooth shoes were 
utterly wretched, and, while striving to 
keep their equilibrium, struggled along, 
160 


STORIES OP HORSES 


straining and pulling, utterly exhausted by 
the double effort. 

Turning into Fifth Avenue, Isabel 
started off at a brisk pace, and was soon 
making good time up the steep grade which 
lies between Thirtieth and Fortieth Streets. 
The avenue was crowded with vehicles of 
every sort, from the elegantly appointed 
equipages of the wealthy, with their pranc- 
ing, beautiful horses, to the humble hawk- 
ers’ carts, yet all seemed imbued with the 
Christmas cheer. As she neared Thirty- 
third Street, an express wagon drove away 
from the Waldorf, the man had come run- 
ning from the hotel to spring upon his 
wagon and whip up his horse with the 
lack of common sense so often displayed. It 
is a pity that such people cannot be placed 
between the shafts for a short time. The 
experience would prove a wholesome one, I 
fancy, and give them a practical demonstra- 
tion of the impossibility of moving heavy 
161 


STORIES OF HORSES 


weights suddenly without endangering some 
organ of the body. 

The horse sprang forward, slipped, 
nearly fell, and was brought to a realizing 
sense of his duty by another jerk and a 
lash. Then, with a mighty effort, he started 
quickly up the hill with his heavily laden 
wagon, his poor, smooth-shod feet slipping 
over the icy pavement in a manner which 
threatened every moment to bring him 
down. 

It had all happened in less time than 
it has taken to tell it, but love has keen 
sight, and with a cry of “ Nick ! Oh, dear 
Old Nick ! ” Isabel forgetful of everybody 
and everything, started up the avenue like 
a deer. She had not far to run, for at 
Thirty-sixth Street the climax was reached 
and Nick fell. 

As she reached him a crowd had sur- 
rounded the prone horse. One man sat 
calmly on the animal’s head, another was 
162 


STORIES OP HORSES 


unhooking the traces, another the tug- 
straps, while the driver was indulging in 
language not set down in the Ten Command- 
ments. The poor horse, utterly exhausted 
by his double exertions, lay as still as 
though the hard, icy pavement were a bliss- 
ful spot. Just as the last strap was re- 
leased and the men stepped aside, Isabel 
came to him, and crying out, “ Nick ! Dear, 
dear Nick ! ” went close to the edge of the 
curb and stretched out her hands toward 
him. God had not given him human speech, 
but if ever a dumb beast spoke Old Nick did 
then ; for at the sound of the beloved voice 
the poor head was raised quickly, and as 
joyous a neigh as ever greeted friend rang 
out upon the frosty air. 

As Isabel spoke the driver approached 
her, and touching his cap respectfully, said : 
“ Do you know that horse, miss? ” 

Isabel looked quickly up, and her heart 
gave a joyous bound as she said: 

163 


STORIES OP HORSES 


“ Yes, oh, yes ! But please, please don’t 
harness him to that dreadful wagon again. 
He was mine once, and I want to buy him 
back.” 

“ Buy him back? ” incredulously. 

“ Yes, yes. I truly do ! Where can I 
talk to you?” 

“ Will you step into this store, miss, and 
I’ll see what I can do for you.” 

“ Thank you so much. But let me touch 
Nick first,” 

No need to ask it. The horse was now 
upon his feet, and had made straight for the 
sidewalk, where two arms were waiting to 
gather the big head, which snuggled into 
them as a child might have done. 

Never mind cold and ice now ! Old Nick 
had no more to wish for, and would have 
been willing to stand there for hours just to 
hear the beloved voice and feel the stroke of 
the dear hands. 

Thanks to the courtesy of the proprietor 
164 


STORIES OP HORSES 


of the store in which Isabel soon took 
refuge, matters were settled between the ex- 
pressman and herself, and, to judge from 
the expression of both faces, to their mutual 
satisfaction. As the expressman left the 
store he was conscious of a good day’s profit 
in the hundred and fifty dollars paid him 
for Old Nick; and when Nick was given into 
his charge to be looked after until he could 
be taken to the farm, Isabel felt that her 
first business transaction had been a suc- 
cessful one. 


165 


CHAPTER IV 

OLD NICK'S HOME-COMING 

N EXT arose the question of getting 
Nick home, but Isabel had gone too 
far to retreat, nor did such a thought occur 
to her. Home Nick must go, and home he 
was going, and she was to get him there. 
There were quick wits in that pretty head, 
and the plans were soon laid. 

Another journey to town, ostensibly to 
finish the previous day's shopping; a suit 
case, presumably to bring the parcels home 
in; a secret conference with the faithful 
Hiram, who, as she tripped away from the 
stable, slapped his thigh and ejaculated: 
“ Wal, I be gol twisted ef she don't beat the 
166 


STORIES OF HORSES 


band ! ” and Old Nick’s saddle and bridle 
were on their way to the city. 

There was still sufficient money for her 
needs, and by one o’clock the following day 
a young lady might have been seen mount- 
ing a big bay horse in front of the Margaret 
Louisa Home. The horse was either too 
happy or too frisky to know what he was 
about, for he kept turning his head around 
to pull at the girl’s habit, her shoe — in 
short, he was acting like a spoilt child. 

At the horse’s head a stableman stood, 
smiling in a very satisfied manner, as if he 
knew a pleasant Christmas secret. Nick’s 
late owner, with a new horse filling Nick’s 
place, drove up, touched his hat to the girl 
as he asked, “ Is your bag inside, miss? ” 
and a moment later the suit case, containing 
Isabel’s street clothing, was speeding upon 
its homeward way. 

“ Thank you so much for your kindness,” 
she said to the man who had brought Nick 
167 


STORIES OF HORSES 


from the expressman’s stable, “ and please 
take this for your children, if you have any. 
I hope they will be as happy as I am.” And 
with a smile which the man remembered 
for many a long day she slipped a coin into 
his hand, gathered up her reins, and started. 

Nick’s burden seemed to have an intox- 
icating effect upon him — or, perhaps, the 
spirit of Christmas had been fastened upon 
his feet with his new shoes — for he acted 
altogether foolishly. But a wise little 
horsewoman rode him, and knowing the 
miles to be traveled over snowy roads, she 
took good care of her mount. 

She had barely reached the Fort Lee ferry 
when the threatened storm began and snow- 
flakes fell rapidly. The fifteen miles to be 
traveled after she reached the Jersey shore 
would have been a pleasant jaunt under 
favorable conditions, but in a driving snow- 
storm, with the thermometer far below 
freezing point, they were no joke; and even 
168 


STORIES OF HORSES 


though joy had put new life into Nick, Isa- 
bel realized that reserve strength was want- 
ing after the hard work of the past weeks. 

More than one person turned to regard 
the pretty young girl with a questioning 
look as she rode up with her hair, hat, and 
habit powdered with snowflakes. Ten of 
the miles had been told off, and although 
doing bravely, Old Nick showed signs of 
great fatigue, while his brave little ridejr 
was nearly perishing from cold. The snow 
was falling fast and the short winter day 
drawing to its close. It would have been 
impossible to travel rapidly, had Nick been 
young and fresh; and although he started 
forward from time to time, as home drew 
nearer and he became familiar with the 
road, he soon lagged again, and his labored 
breathing told plainly of exhaustion. 

The last turn had been made, and a 
straight stretch of road lay before him, 
with home almost in sight. He threw up 
169 


STORIES OF HORSES 


his head, gave a loud neigh, stumbled, and 
nearly fell over something hidden by the 
snow. Isabel slipped from the saddle and 
stood knee-deep in the drifts. 

“Why, Nick, dear, how did it happen?” 
she cried, stroking his steaming neck. But 
Nick was sniffing about in the snow with 
queer, frightened snorts. 

Isabel gave a little cry, and brushing 
aside the snow struck a man’s garments. 
A moment later she was supporting her 
father’s unconscious form in her arms. 

A bad bruise upon his temple, a broken 
arm, a whip lying near him told the story. 
Quickly taking a card from her pocket-book, 
she wrote upon it : “ Papa is at the four 
corners injured. Send at once. Isabel,” 
and fastened the message to Nick’s head- 
stall. Then, tying the reins securely to the 
pommel of the saddle, she gave Nick a sharp 
slap upon his flank, and cried : 

“Home, Nick! Home!” 

170 


STORIES OP HORSES 


A dumb beast was then permitted to 
demonstrate the teachings of Him whose 
birthday eve it was and to return good for 
evil. With a wild toss of his head, Nick 
plunged forward, and was soon lost in the 
gloom, but Isabel heard the thud, thud of 
his fleeing feet long after he had disap- 
peared. 

Two hours later Mr. Townsend was being 
tenderly cared for by wife and daughter, the 
wretched colt which had caused the mishap 
was caught and returned to the stable, and 
Nick — dear, faithful Old Nick — was in 
Hiram’s care — Hiram, who rubbed him 
down until each separate hair was as dry 
as a bone, and who was now standing by 
while Nick enjoyed a steaming bran mash, 
and talking to him as to a twin brother. 

“ Aint she a trump, Nick? I tell ye, old 
man, ye needn’t never have no fears thet 
ye’ll leave this place agin till ye’re toted out 
ter yer last beddin’ down. No, siree; not 
171 


STORIES OF HORSES 

while thet leetle girl owns yer. Do yer be- 
lieve me, sonny? ” 

Nick evidently did believe it, for he 
promptly put his mark thereto by raising a 
very slobbery muzzle and rubbing it against 
Hiram’s sleeve. 


172 


HOW NED TOODLES 
TOLD TIME 








HOW NED TOODLES 
TOLD TIME 

“ TAENISE, darling, are you upstairs?” 

called Aunt Helen, at the foot of the 
playhouse stairs. 

“ Yes, auntie; do you want me?” 

“ Only to know whether you have seen 
John anywhere about, dear.” 

“ I think he has gone with Sunshine and 
Flash to the blacksmith’s. I saw him lead 
them away about half an hour ago.” 

“ Dear me, that is too bad, for we need 
him very much!” 

“ What is it, auntie? Can I do it for 
you? ” 

“ Why, the grocer has just delivered the 
morning’s order, but has forgotten to bring 
175 


STORIES OF HORSES 

the half barrel of sugar ordered, and cook 
is nearly beside herself, for she is in the 
midst of her jelly-making and needs the 
sugar very much.” 

“ Oh ! let me go after it. It will be lots of 
fun.” 

Aunt Helen laughed as she gave her con- 
sent, and a moment later Denise had let 
down the bars of the day stall and was drag- 
ging Ned Toodles out by his forelock, much 
to that animal’s disgust, for it was nearly 
twelve o’clock, and that meant dinner time 
for him. 

It took her only a jiffy to whisk his 
harness on him, and a few moments 
later she rattled out of the playhouse, 
down the driveway, and through the 
gate. 

It was not more than a mile to the village, 
but that mile tried Denise’s patience. 

Ned bounced and jerked along, first upon 
one side of the road and then upon the other, 
176 


STORIES OF HORSES 


in order to show his disapproval at 
being sent upon an errand just at dinner 
time. 

“ I certainly think I shall do something 
dreadful to you, if you don’t behave your- 
self. What makes you act so, anyway? ” 
she cried, as she drew up his rein and 
cracked her whip threateningly. “ I’d be 
ashamed of myself to make such a fuss just 
because I thought my dinner was going to 
be half an hour late,” she continued, in a 
scathing tone. 

A fig cared Ned for anybody’s opinion, 
and as Denise came up to the store at which 
she had to stop and turned around so that 
Ned was headed toward home, he gave his 
head a saucy wag, as though to say : 

“ Perhaps some people had better reserve 
their opinions until they are asked.” 

Tie-strap in hand, Denise hopped out of 
the wagon, but just as she was about to tie 
Ned, for she had very pronounced misgiv- 
177 


STORIES OF HORSES 


ings of his sense of honor, the proprietor of 
the store slipped out to say : 

“ I know what you have come for, Miss 
Denise, but we will send it at once.” 

“ I will take it with me in the back of my 
wagon, Mr. Groves, thank you.” 

“ Very well. I’ll send it right out.” 
Denise stepped back into the wagon to 
wait, and then came the beginning of Ned’s 
humiliation. Dong ! rang out the bell of the 
town clock. Dong! dong! until twelve 
strokes of the bell had sounded. Ned knew 
a great deal, and he must also have known 
how to count, for as the last stroke rung 
out he began to fidget. “ Now you are up 
to some new prank,” said Denise to herself, 
“ and I won’t say one word, but will see 
what you will do.” So she let the reins 
hang loose and kept perfectly still. 

Ned’s blinders prevented him from see- 
ing her, but one ear was laid back to 
listen. 


178 


STORIES OP HORSES 


Denise sat as silent as the whip socket. 

First a sidling step away from the curb- 
stone ; then another. Still no restraint from 
the wagon. Surely Denise must have gone 
into that store, thought Ned. 

Two or three more steps took him well 
into the middle of the road, and that road 
led home and to dinner. 

Still it would be wiser to listen again, 
and a knowing pair of ears were prepared 
to catch the faintest sound from the 
wagon. 

But no sound came, although Denise was 
nearly convulsed with laughter. 

Surely things were progressing famously, 
and when dinner was to be had so easily 
why not go after it? And off my laddie 
started, at a brisk pace. 

But walking was slow work. Not a 
vehicle was in sight, so very shortly Master 
Ned was trotting along at a fine rate. 

“ Dear me ! trotting is a very common- 
ly 


STORIES OF HORSES 


place manner of getting over the ground. 
Can’t we improve on it? ” Surely, and a 
moment later the little villain was bound- 
ing along like a deer, the wagon jerking and 
rattling behind him. 

By this time Denise thought the joke had 
gone far enough, and so said in her most 
sarcastic tone: 

“ Well, sir, how much further do you in- 
ten to run?” 

But the effect was astounding. With one 
final bound Ned stopped short. 

Snap went the breeching straps, and over 
went Denise, landing straight across the 
dashboard, with her hands spread out upon 
Ned’s fat haunches, where she could only 
lie and laugh. When she had laughed till 
she couldn’t laugh any more, she scrambled 
out, and, walking around to Ned’s head, 
peeped over the blinders, and beheld a very 
subdued little horse. 

“ Well, sir, when I’ve fixed up your har- 
180 


STORIES OP HORSES 

ness, and gotten you into some sort of shape 
again, we’ll go back for the sugar, if you 
please, and it would serve you just exactly 
right if you did not get one bit of dinner 
until two o’clock instead of one.” 


THE END 


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